


Latch

by losterthanlife



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Discussion of Canonical Rape in Later Chapters, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losterthanlife/pseuds/losterthanlife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Ian learn to deal - with Ian's disorder, Mickey's mood swings, Monica's reemergence, their life as an out couple. Life for the Gallavichs is just as it's always been - angsty and fluffy and full of drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mommy Mopey Days

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Happy first day of Gallavich week! This fic is not inspired by any Gallavich week prompts or anything, I just happened to be lucky enough to post it on the first day! The title of this fic is inspired by the song "Latch" by Disclosure - beautiful Gallavich song!

**Chapter One: _Mommy Mopey Days_**

When Ian was little, he used to have “Mommy Mopey Days”. It’s what Monica would call them, that first morning after, when she’d finally make her way out of bed again and he’d come downstairs to find her making pancakes and singing his favorite songs. “No more Mommy Mopey Days, baby.”

He had started the tradition, one morning after she’d finally returned from who knew where because of who knew why, and he woke up in the morning to find little Fiona pouring cereal into everyone’s bowls. “Mom’s not feeling well,” she explained, telling Ian to eat his breakfast and get ready for school – there would be plenty of time to worry about Monica later.

So he walked halfway to school, and then hid in the bushes until he saw Fiona walk by, and doubled back. He shoved his backpack in the tree in the backyard, and snuck into Monica’s room, careful not to move the blinds and let any light in. And there he would lay with her, day after day, until just before Fiona was due back, when he’d grab his bag and race through the neighbor’s backyards in order to stumble upon her on their way home from school.

And this is the story Ian tells Mickey, the first time he truly starts to talk to him again. Mickey is sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, not having a clue what to do about this anymore. It’s been five days, and the only sign of improvement was the couple crackers Ian ate that afternoon, even though it took him about an hour and a half to get through three.

“I was the only one who sat with Monica.” The statement is so short, and so unexpected, that Mickey isn’t sure he hears it at first. His back tenses, but he doesn’t look back. Maybe Ian talking is like a deer or some shit – if he looks back, lets him know he sees him, hears him, then it’ll be gone in a flash. “I’d lay down so she could hold me, and I think it helped her. Maybe it didn’t. But she’d say thank you, you know, when she stayed long enough afterward to say anything?”

It’s a question, but Mickey isn’t sure what the fuck kind of answer he was supposed to have. Just like Ian, he thought, still not daring to move. Doesn’t talk to him for five fucking days and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, all he has to say is some sappy shit about his mother.

There were several long minutes of silence, and Mickey began to fear that was it – that was all Ian had for him. Then, Ian sighs softly into the pillow, and Mickey suddenly realizes that maybe he expects a conversation. But what the fuck is he supposed to say, huh?

_I missed you_. No, too damn cheesy, and besides, there’s no indication he’s done being missed.

_Fuck you_. He’d really like to say that – he’s whispered it in the bathroom, in the middle of the night when he’s sure Ian’s asleep and he dares take an hour for himself. But it’s the kind of thing to say behind closed doors, at least for now.

_Is it over?_ Ian doesn’t know, Mickey doesn’t know, no one fucking knows.

There’s nothing Mickey can say that is the right thing, or doesn’t make him sound like a fucking girl. When Debbie was there, just the other day to bring Mickey some of Ian’s stuff, he asked her a question. He felt stupid, but he had to know. “When will I know he’s up again?”

Debbie considered his question, in the way Debbie did, where she didn’t really look at him or smile like Mandy did because he was showing he _cared_ or some shit. “With Monica, it just happened. She’d show you. She’d just say what she needed or she’d say it was over and it’d just be over. Ian will let you know.”

_So maybe you did tell me, you evil little fuck_.

He stands up, grumbling to himself as he does it. The things he does for this Gallagher kid. It’s stupid. It takes some maneuvering, but after a moment he’s lying there, on his side in front of Ian, facing the same wall Ian’s been staring at for days. It takes Mickey less than five seconds to decide it’s a boring ass wall, so it fails to see what’s been holding Ian’s interest.

Slowly, he begins counting in his head. This feels fucking stupid, and he’s not going to sit there all day like some little girl for nothing. Gallagher’s got a time clock, and…and timidly, almost as if he’s afraid Mickey will melt away underneath him at his touch, Ian’s arm slides over Mickey’s side. Mickey feels a spark inside of himself again, finally. _This_ was what he had been missing. He’d tried holding Ian, sure, he’d fallen asleep every night with an arm or leg or whatever in constant contact, but _this_ – this is Ian’s doing, and this is what Mickey needs.

He scoots back against Ian, until he feels Ian’s chin on top of his head, and he lets his eyes close. Ian reeks, of course, but Mickey doesn’t really mind because an Ian who smells like ball sweat is still more of an Ian than he had an hour ago.

“Fiona caught onto the Mommy Mopey Days eventually,” Ian continues, and Mickey silently hopes he keeps talking because now he can feel a rumble in Ian’s chest as he talks into Mickey’s hair. “Real bad semester for Monica one time, so I missed enough school that people started sniffing around. She started walking me to school on Monica’s bad days. Just meant I had a longer walk when I snuck back.”

Mickey is listening, because truly he gives a shit about the dumb shit that comes out of Ian’s mouth, but the longer they lay there the more his exhaustion starts to settle in, until he feels relaxed by drowsiness and just… _home_. His carrot top is lurking in the fog, for the first time he can almost see him again.

“I didn’t skip school every time once Fiona found out – no way I could. The last bad days Monica had at home before she disappeared, I didn’t leave school for. I said goodbye to her that morning and she asked if we could have a Mommy Mopey Day. I told her sure, but then I just never came back.”

Mickey opens his mouth to tell Ian to stop, there’s no reason to be talking about all this sad shit so soon. But he closes it again. If there’s one thing these past five days have taught him, it was that he didn’t have one fucking clue how to handle Ian’s head anymore. If Ian needed to tell him some sad fucking story, then he needed to. Mickey would sit there and listen and if it hurt Ian to tell it, then he’d just have to fucking fix that too.

“I was so mad at her, you know?” For his part, Ian might as well be talking about the weather. His voice is soft, emotionless, but it’s his voice and Mickey is so happy to hear it he doesn’t give a shit. “I always tried to help and it never worked.”

Mickey grips Ian’s arm around him with his hands, just in case Ian is saying this shit for the reason he thinks he is.

“I always just thought it couldn’t be that hard, you know? If she cared how much effort I put in, if she cared for me at all, wouldn’t she just stop and get up and live or something?”

“Yeah, I ‘magine it feels that fucking simple to a little kid.” _And a grown adult sometimes too_ , but Mickey doesn’t say that.

“It isn’t that simple, though. It’s so…so different. I – She couldn’t even feel me there, I don’t think. Not at first.” Mickey was dumb about a lot of shit, but Ian-ese, not so much. Ian was speaking of himself now, even if he said “she”. Maybe this was a good sign, Ian being aware enough to know it wasn’t right.

“What about later on, then?”

“It was an anchor. She wasn’t just trapped in her own head anymore and she could actually touch the real world again.” Ian dips his head, and presses his lips to the top of Mickey’s head. He holds the position for much longer than Mickey usually allows, but for today he doesn’t care.

“Look, your mom would’ve left one way or another, Ian. Fuck, you with your girly bed shit probably just made her stick around longer than she would’ve. Just think how long she would’ve stayed if you’d had the patience of a Milkovich, who can be a fucking anchor forever, whatever.” Mickey closes his eyes, and in his head he can see that dopey little grin Ian gives him when he says sappy girl shit like that.

Ian’s lips twitch in his hair, but Mickey knows better than to think it’s a real smile. “Mick.”

“The fuck you want?”

“Can I – do you still have her pills?”

Mickey tenses. He hadn’t expected this, and suddenly he’s terrified he’ll handle it wrong. “Shit, yeah, here-“ He reaches into his jean pocket and pulls out the little baggy he’d put a few in, after Lip dropped them off the other day. Ian’s fingers close around the baggy, and his arm slides away from Mickey. Mickey grabs the water glass off the side table, and wonders if he should get Ian a new one since this is the same glass he tried to get Ian to drink four days ago, but fuck if he’s taking the chance of Ian slipping away while he’s gone.

The pill sits on Ian’s tongue only for a moment before he takes a swig of water and washes it away. When he’s done, he looks at Mickey, now sitting up and looking at him, and opens his mouth. “I’m not putting my dick in there till you brush,” Mickey says, but Ian doesn’t register even hearing the joke as he moves his tongue around. “Alright, alright, Jesus, I see it’s not in there, fuck.” Mickey feels uncomfortable, but proud at the same time.

“I’m sor-“

“You shut your fucking mouth, Gallagher.” Mickey cuts Ian off as soon as he sees that watery-eyed little apology trying to sneak it’s way out. Somewhere around day three, Mickey realized this was his life now. No matter when Ian came back, he would probably go again, and Mickey decided he was not going to take apologies for it. He chose to keep Ian, and if there was one thing the Milkovichs taught in their family, it was that family never apologizes. “You want me to get you something to eat?”

Ian looked down. “Not hungry.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not. I’m tired.”

Mickey wants to laugh, because who the fuck would be tired after five straight days in a bed, but he can see in Ian’s every muscle what his mouth isn’t yet ready to say – he’s not all the way back. ‘Course he’s not. But it’s a step, and it’s a step that’s important. “Come ‘ere, I’m tired of being the fucking little spoon.” Mickey leans up against the pillows, and in a moment Ian is laying on his lap, his arms circled around Mickey’s waist.

“You’re the shorter one, though,” Ian mumbles into the folds of Mickey’s jeans.

“Oh, fuck you. Go to sleep, you’re so fucking tired.”

“Mick, these pills, if they don’t – I mean…”

Mickey could think of about a million ways to finish Ian’s sentence. What if the pills do nothing, and Ian slips away again without getting any of the help he’d wanted? What if the pills do awful things to him and he’s worse off than he started? What if, what if, what fucking if this isn’t going to help? “Whatever, then. We figure it out, Ian. You just need to rest up and get out of this damn bed and then we figure it out.”

“Okay.” The word comes out like a soft sigh, so Mickey assumes Ian is almost asleep. His fingers find their way into Ian’s dirty ass hair. “’M scared.”

Mickey trails his finger softly over Ian’s scalp for a long moment, not yet willing to speak until he’s sure Ian is almost asleep. “Me too, man.”


	2. Seven Days of Lithium Makes One Weak

**Chapter Two: _Seven Days of Lithium Makes One Weak_**

The morning after Ian takes the pills, Mickey begins to have second thoughts. Ian is still sleeping, but somewhere in the night he rolled over, and when Mickey wakes up early to take a piss he can find his way out of the bed without waking him up. He sits in the bathroom for a long time, wondering if he made the wrong decision. Ian was coming back on his own. He talked, he told stories, he actually touched him again – maybe he didn’t need those stupid pills.

But Mickey swallows down his doubts and grabs the bottle from the medicine cabinet. Lip told him when he brought them that these were Monica’s pills, that she never bothered to take them. And where the fuck was she these days? If there was one thing Mickey wasn’t going to let happen in this mess, it was Ian disappearing like his flake of a mother. And if these pills kept him around, then it was worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

On the second morning after Ian starts taking the pills, Mickey comes back from a shower to find Ian sitting up in bed. His knees are drawn to his chest and his head is buried in them, but Mickey has newfound appreciation for just how much movement a body does to move from laying down to sitting up and it feels like a damn miracle for Ian to do it.

It isn’t until Mickey pulls his shirt over his head and looks at Ian again that he notices his shoulders shaking. “Ian, what –“ He crosses the room in a matter of a second, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to Ian but stopping short before touching him.

The redhead moves again, lifting his head just enough to look at Mickey. “What the hell happened?” Mickey asks. Ian’s eyes are full of tears and his face is streaky and wet.

“I – I don’t know.” The broken words come out at no more than a whisper, and a moment later a fresh wave of sobs overtake him and he buries his head again, his shoulders shaking violently as he tries to muffle his gasps for breath.

“Fuck, what the fuck.” Mickey doesn’t do crying. He was the one who sat outside the church during his mom’s funeral because he couldn’t take another fucking tear from those people. He moves closer, letting his hand find Ian’s shoulder now. “Shit, nothing happened, okay? You’re here, it’s fine, I – shit, Ian.”

Comfort isn’t something any Milkovich does well, but after about an hour, Mandy shows up and tells Mickey to fuck off. Of course, he doesn’t “fuck off”, but he watches from the door as Mandy squeezes herself in behind Ian and puts her arms around him, her chin resting on his shoulder. A strange feeling grips Mickey’s chest. Ian would probably tell him it was jealousy, and dare him to do the same just to show him no one cares if he does, but fuck that. He’s not jealous of his sister doing lame girly shit with his…with Ian.

So Mickey spends the morning making breakfast. What starts out at scrambled eggs turns into scrambled eggs and omelettes and sausage and bacon and French toast and it would have been pancakes too, if Mandy hadn’t come out of Ian’s room just then.

“He’s still not eating, you know,” she says when she sees the piles of food on every counter space they have.

“So fucking what, everyone else in this house go on hunger strike in celibacy or some shit?”

“You mean solidarity?”

“Fuck off, whatever the fuck I meant, what’s your point? How is he?”

She’s quiet for long enough that Mickey puts the spatula down and turns around to look at her. “He’s sad.”

Mickey rolls his eye. “Jesus, Mandy, you think I couldn’t figure that out.”

“I think it’s a good thing though.” Mickey can’t even come with a good response to that. “No, I mean – before I think he was almost too depressed to be sad. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk – but maybe crying is good. He’s getting better.”

Mickey isn’t sure he believes that, but he leaves the food out where it is – after the night he heard his wife and her little lesbian life partner having through the wall they could use the calories. He goes back to Ian, who has buried his head in the pillow and is still sobbing away. He sits there, just on the edge of the bed, and watches Ian, unsure of what to say.

It may have been moments, maybe it was hours, but finally Mickey looks away from Ian and Svetlana is there, staring at them silently from the door. Rage sparks inside Mickey – Ian has suffered enough indignities and pain at the hands of the world today, he’ll be damned if the Russian bitch is going to add anymore to it.

“The fuck you want, huh?” Mickey snaps as he shuts the door behind him, blocking Ian out of the conversation.

“I thought you said you like the penis, not the little girls.”

“You shut the fuck about him, now what the fuck you want?”

Svetlana’s hands are on her hips, and she’s glaring at Mickey. “You promise to watch baby boy. You no watch baby boy because you watch baby girl in there, yes?”

Mickey can feel the tension in his shoulders. “Fuckin’ Jesus, I will watch him, but this is kinda more important right now. You’re not busy, fuckin’ watch him yourself and I’ll make up for my damn Daddy time when it’s over.”

“No, that is not deal. You watch baby boy today. Nikka and I have date.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. I don’t care about your date. You chose to have the kid, you fuckin –“

She moves closer to him, standing over him. “You watch baby boy today. Your little fairy girl in there – he waits. Or I tell police he’s here.”

Mickey’s eyebrows furrow together. “It isn’t illegal for him to fucking be here.” She has nothing on them, he knows it, but still…his heart is beating faster.

“But he is crazy, and –“

“Don’t you ever fucking use that word again or I will make damn sure you regret it.” Svetlana smirks at his threat.

“He need help, and police give it to him. I do him favor.”

Mickey thinks in that moment about pushing her away, about just letting go of all his anger right there, with her – but then he thinks of the day he walked in on Mandy in the bathroom, and holds himself back. “Look, just – god damn it, I’ll watch him, okay? I’ll figure it out. Fuck.”

An hour later, Mickey is sitting at the kitchen table with Yev in his arms, and Ian is still shut in his room crying. He stares at his phone, at the message he’s typed six different ways but still can’t send. “Fuck,” he grumbles, and finally punches the send button.

_Ian needs you, okay? He’s getting better, but – you should come._

Mickey’s original plan is to give Fiona the baby when she gets there. But when she bursts in without even knocking and takes one look at her brother in tears on the bed, she’s curled around him so fast, murmuring stories to him about all the new words Liam’s learned lately that Mickey can’t even move from his spot at the table.

After awhile, Mickey sits on the floor just outside Ian’s door with Yev, and the words Fiona’s speaking, though low enough that he can’t really make them out, starts to put Yev to sleep. Mickey closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Fiona is standing there, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Mickey stands, and without any word exchanged between them, Fiona is taking Yev from him. “He fell asleep,” she explains, when Mickey starts toward the door. “So, have you decided to get him to someone who can help yet?”

His heartbeat quickens, and when he speaks, he forces himself not to yell. “Why the fuck you think I called you to be here?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“You’re family, how the fuck is a doctor better than that?”

She looks down at Yev, cooing something at him as he starts to fuss. “He needs more than family.”

Mickey wants to tell her there’s nothing more than family, but he’s not about to have this argument again. They’ve both made their cases clear. “He’s getting fucking better. He doesn’t need a damn hospital.”

“You think that’s better?” Fiona’s voice rises, her head jerking at the door.

“Better than fucking laying there like he’s not capable of feeling anything at all.”

Fiona considered his words. “Look, Mickey, you’ve done a great job. No one’s saying you’re not, but…this kind of thing is bigger than us.”

“So is he,” Mickey says automatically, his anger getting the better of him. He’s not thinking straight, because he’s starting to feel afraid again – afraid of losing Ian – and that kind of thing doesn’t make him think straight. “He’s bigger and better than us and he can do this without fucking doctors. He’s taking the meds –“

“He is?” For a brief second, Fiona almost looks hopeful.

“Yeah, he asked for them himself and he’s taking them. Jesus, this whole thing starts because he’s off alone without his family and you want to send him away? Ian can do this, but he needs his fucking family around him.”

Yev starts to fuss again, and after Fiona calms him down, she looks back at Mickey. “Gallaghers have never been the type to do therapy,” she says, talking slowly as if she’s choosing her words carefully. “I want as much as you do for Ian to pull through this on his own, but…I just don’t know.”

“He isn’t on his own, he’s with us,” Mickey says fiercely.

 

* * *

 

On the sixth morning after Ian starts taking the medicine, Mickey wakes up to find Ian sitting up in bed, staring at him.

“Shit, you okay?” He asks, and he’s up and wrestling his way out of the covers before his mind has even fully registered that he’s awake.

“Fine,” Ian answers, and it’s then that Mickey notices he’s smiling.

Mickey groans, letting his head fall back to the pillow. “Stop staring at me then, you pussy. You scared the shit out of me.”

His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t notice Ian moving again until he feels him pressed up against him. A moment later, his lips are on Mickey’s. Mickey’s eyes fly open, but as his half asleep mind registers what’s happening, he closes them again and deepens the kiss, pressing against Ian under the covers.

They stay this way for most of the morning, until Ian finally announces he’s hungry and Mickey trips trying to put his pants on to go warm him up some breakfast. The whole time they lay together, Mickey doesn’t ask Ian how he’s feeling. He wants to, but whenever he tries to say anything Ian’s lips find his, and his fingers trail over Mickey’s waistband. Mickey’s never been dumb enough to choose talking over _this_ , so he bites back his questions and he goes with it. He lets himself believe it’s over, and he relishes the fact that today, he is the only thing Ian needs and he’s completely capable of doing it right.

 

* * *

 

 

On the seventh morning after Ian starts taking the medicine, Ian finally leaves the bed. It’s early, way too fucking early for anyone to be up, but Mickey is jerked awake by Ian flinging himself out of the bed and bolting out of the room.

A feeling unlike Mickey has ever experienced before grips him as he follows him out of the room. “Ian?” his voice comes out at a whisper.

Ian has finally left the bed, and Mickey wants to feel relieved – he’s thought about how he’ll celebrate this moment. He’s even dreamed of just sitting at the table with Ian again, of watching movies on the couch – he’s even thought about going on a run with Ian someday, just because he’s promised himself he’ll be so fucking grateful to see Ian out of that bed.

But when he finds Ian on his knees, hunched over the toilet, violently relieving his stomach contents, he wishes Ian was still fucking laying down, because this…this is bad.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Firstly, thank you so much for reading - I was shocked by the amount of interest in my first chapter! I only hope you like this chapter as much! 
> 
> I'm already hard at work on the next chapter, so hopefully that will be up soon as well!


	3. The Exorcism of Ian Gallagher

**Chapter Three: _The Exorcism of Ian Gallagher_**

It feels like he’s coming out of a very long dream. He becomes aware of himself slowly – there’s a burning feeling, and his arms (which feel so heavy he doesn’t think he can ever move them again), his head (pounding, but that hardly feels like anything new anymore). But that burning…

He realizes what’s happening even as his body is already moving from the bed and carrying him on auto pilot to the bathroom. He’s dropping to his knees, but not yet to the floor the first time he throws up.

His thoughts return to his brain as the vomit leaves his mouth. His name is Ian Gallagher, he’s seventeen years old, he is most likely bipolar, he’s dating Mickey Milkovich and everyone knows it…and he’s probably dying.

There’s a hand on his back after the fourth time he throws up, and it’s like he’s been deaf until that moment. “Fucking hell, Ian, you alright?”

Ian almost laughs, but the slight chuckle turns into a heave and he’s gripping the sides of the toilet seat. He hasn’t eaten enough to take this, and he’s sure he’ll soon be losing actual organs through his mouth if this keeps up.

He coughs and heaves again, his whole body aching. His arms shake as he tries to hold himself over the toilet, and as he dips down to heave again, he feels Mickey’s hands on his arms, steadying him. He knows he should feel embarrassed – this isn’t exactly the sexiest he’s ever been…but he’s trying so hard to keep breathing that he isn’t capable of feeling much else.

Eventually he collapses, lowering himself onto the floor. He lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and Mickey enters his view. “You good, man?”

He tries to tell him he doesn’t know, but his mouth is dry and his tongue feels like heavy sandpaper, and he’s just so _exhausted_. He moves his arm around until Mickey grabs his hand, and his squeezes his rough fingers.

“I’ll – I’ll get you some water. You want some water?” Mickey’s using that same tone he used the day Ian thought his head was going to explode, that day he was just so sad and scared and lost he couldn’t do anything but cry. That day feels like ages ago, but right now, he thinks he’d rather cry forever than ever feel this sick again. He knows Mickey is worried, even more so because he doesn’t have any idea what to do. Mickey isn’t good at this kind of stuff, and even though he feels half dead, Ian can’t help but feel honored that Mickey tries anyway.

He squeezes Mickey’s hand again, and apparently Mickey takes this as a “yes” to the water, because he disappears for a moment, and Ian hears the sink above him start to run. When it shuts off, Mickey’s back, and Ian thinks he should really give himself more credit for being smart, because instead of a glass he wet a towel, and alternates squeezing the water from it into Ian’s mouth and wiping him down.

“You’re fucking burning up man, what the hell.”

Ian wakes up some time later, and he realizes he never even meant to fall asleep. But the fire in his stomach is finally gone, and he sits up. The room is spinning, but that’s nothing new, and it probably has far more to do with how little he’s eaten than anything else. And he _stinks_. Fuck, the odor he’s emitting is more than he thought was possible. Days of not showering and sweating and crying and puking – it’s left a smell with him no one’s likely to try to bottle anytime soon.

He stands, and doesn’t immediately want to throw up, so that’s probably a good sign. The bathroom’s small enough that he’s across the room in less than a second and he’s turning on the shower before he notices Mickey is laying in the bathtub below.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” His clothes are drenched and he’s launched himself into a standing position, but Ian is laughing so hard that he can’t even turn off the water. Mickey finally does, and he gets out of the tub, his jeans dripping a puddle of water around him. “Was that supposed to be fucking funny?”

“Happy accident,” Ian responds as he holds his stomach, because he’s starving and dizzy and it hurts to laugh.

“You are such a bitch, you know that?” Ian looks at Mickey then, really looks at him like he hasn’t seen him in ages, and he sees that even though Mickey is furious, he’s actually almost smiling.

“I do know that,” Ian responds, and he reaches out, undoing Mickey’s jeans.

“I told you you ain’t sucking shit till you brush,” Mickey says, but he takes a step closer so Ian has easier access.

Ian reaches over and turns on the water. “I’m not sucking shit, period,” he says, and smiles at Mickey’s expression. “But you seem confused how a shower works, so I figured I’d help you out.”

 

As much as Mickey hoped it would be, Ian’s coming back isn’t automatic. He isn’t just better, all of a sudden, just like that. After the night he got sick, they showered and ate breakfast at the fucking table like real adults, and then Ian slept for seven hours. Mickey spent those hours sitting by the bed, watching him, afraid that it was starting all over again.

He texted Lip, wanting to know what the fuck was in those pills, and Lip told that kind of thing could happen – a side effect or some shit. Mickey almost told him to fuck off then and flush the pills, because he wasn’t going to let Ian go through that kind of torture. But then Ian rolls over, and half asleep he holds his hand out to Mickey, and he smiles and Mickey knows the pills were working, even if they’re shitty.

He doesn’t get sick as often anymore. He throws up a couple more times, throughout the week, but it’s nothing like it was that first night, when Mickey was sure he’d never stop being sick. And each day, he eats more, sleeps less. He even starts sitting on the couch with Mickey, and one day they play video games for five hours. And Mickey begins to think the worst is over.

 

 

Ian wakes up one morning, and the first thing he thinks of is how beautiful of a day it is. The second, as he slides out of bed without waking Mickey, is how much his legs feel like jello.

Today seems like as good a day as any to go for a run, so he does. He runs for miles, and although he’s a lot slower than he remembers, he feels like the air’s cleaner than it used to be and his calves feel tight as he makes his way back up the Milkovich’s stairs and it feels normal again, which is nice.

He comes back just as the sun is coming up, and he takes a picture of the sunrise from the front porch because he thinks Mickey will like it, and maybe one day they can both get up early and watch it together. Svetlana is awake when he comes in, and she’s bouncing Yev around and ranting about “fucking babies with their poo diapers”, so Ian asks if she’d like him to watch Yev for awhile, so she can go back to sleep. He knows she must be really tired, because she actually says yes.

 

 

When Mickey wakes up, Ian isn’t next to him, and Mickey hates himself a little for how much it bothers him. He puts on his clothes and stumbles out into the kitchen, about to bitch Mandy out for cooking whatever the hell it is he’s smelling instead of keeping track of Ian. But then he catches a glimpse of orange hair and a baby, and he’s about to lose it because no fucking way did Svetlana seriously cut her hair so it’d look like his too, when…

“Mornin’, sleepy head.”

It’s Ian. It’s fucking Ian, and he’s holding that baby (his son, or whatever), and he’s fucking flipping a pancake and how the hell is this real? Ian grins, and he turns the heat off to the burner and grabs a plate full of pancakes in one hand while adjusting Yev in his other arm. “You got up just in time. Breakfast’s ready.”

He brushes past Mickey to set the plate on the table, which he’s already set (five fucking settings, he’s seriously inviting the Russian whore and her side chick to breakfast), and there’s a fucking flower sitting in a milk glass in the middle of the table. “That a daisy or some shit?”

Ian turns, then follows Mickey’s gaze back to the flower. When he looks back at Mickey, he looks smug. “How do you know which kind of flower a daisy is?” He’s teasing him, and Mickey wants to smile because he was being to wonder if Ian would ever be up enough to tease him again, but Mickey has too much pride for that if this is how Ian’s going to be.

“Look, I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t knock this shit off, Gallagher. Why is there a daisy at my fucking table?”

“Thought this place could use a little sunshine. Speaking of which, Mick, have you ever seen how gorgeous the sun is from your porch in the morning?”

Mickey’s stomach sinks at the question, but he isn’t sure why. “Do I look like someone who knows what the fucking sunrise looks like?”

“I’ll show you then,” Ian says, and he moves past Mickey again, settling Yev in his bassi-whatever-the-fuck-Svetlana-calls-it. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, fiddles with for a moment, and drops it in Mickey’s hand. “See it?” He’s pulling plates out of the cabinet now, and as they clank together on the counter, Mickey looks at the phone.

“Oh, just fucking gorgeous. Why the fuck you taking pictures of the sun again, exactly?” Mickey knows why he’s afraid, now. He watches Ian set the table, and his eyes are burning. The sunrise, the breakfast, the fucking daisy…Ian’s up again, and while it was what Mickey had been hoping for, now he fears it. Because if he gets too high up…that’s just the further he’s gonna fall when he goes low, isn’t it? Mickey had been hoping for the fucking middle. There’s something endearing about Ian when he’s Mr. Holly Happy with his Fucking Sunrises…but now that he knows the price fucking karma makes Ian pay for that shit, he doesn’t want it anymore. Give him a moderately sullen Ian, a lazy Ian, an Ian who gets out of bed and goes through life but maybe doesn’t fucking love every damn minute of it. That he can deal with.

Ian’s hand is on his then, and he realizes Ian might have already answered him, but he wasn’t listening. “Hey.” Ian’s voice is soft, and his takes his phone from Mickey’s palm. “It’s okay, you know.” Mickey intends to snort at him and tell him to fuck off, because why does he think he needs to be told it’s ‘okay’, he’s not some fucking girl, ‘course he knows it’s okay. But his snort catches in his throat, and he feels too pissed off at everything – Ian, Svetlana, his fucking father, the goddamn army, broken ass brains and lithium and himself and Ian again because fuck that kid for making him care about anything.

“I just wanted to show you I was happy. I wanted you to know it was over.” Ian’s arms are circled around Mickey’s waist and he can feel Ian’s fingers on his back but he just feels so fucking pissed. It isn’t over, fuck you Ian, it’ll never be over. This is their life and this is forever and all they’ve done is paused the damn misery till it takes Ian away again. “I’m sorry, okay? Fuck, Mick, I’m sorry.”

This time, Mickey is too damn irritated with the whole thing to tell Ian not to apologize. Instead, he covers Ian’s mouth with his, kissing him till it hurts. He feels Ian’s teeth connect with his lip and he pushes harder. The longer they kiss, the more he feels the thoughts get pushed away. He pushes Ian backward, finally, breaking the kiss.

“Shut up and eat your fucking pancakes,” Mickey says simply, sitting down. He reaches over, picks the daisy out of the glass, and tosses it at Ian. “Fuckin’ pansy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am just blown away by the response I'm receiving. I love you all and I hope you've enjoyed this chapter as much as the last! I've been trying to get a little ahead so that on busy days I can still get this story out, but we'll see how the week works out! I have so many ideas for the rest of this story, and I am so anxious for you all to experience them!


	4. Pain Management

**Chapter Four: _Pain Management_**

Dancing these days takes a little more effort from Ian. Most days, he remembers how it’s _supposed_ to feel, how it did feel, when he was in that bad place that felt like a good place. And it’s not like he doesn’t enjoy it – he feels like the Ian he’s supposed to be there – but it’s just different now.

Some days, he doesn’t feel very sexy. Some days, he doesn’t actually really want to get out of bed, but Mickey smacks him on the ass or tells him something stupid or just doesn’t even acknowledge that him staying in bed and is an option and so he gets up. Some days it’s easier and he gets up and goes on a run. But every day, Mickey gives him those pills and he shows him he’s taken them because he needs someone to know he’s trying.

The pills work, he knows that much, even if he’s not convinced this is the best he could ever feel. He’s floating between the two poles now – some days happy, some days sad, but hardly manic or depressed or whatever the hell was going on with him. Mickey sees it too, and the other day he actually spent the whole day at the rub and tug, and he didn’t even text Ian more than six times to ask how things were. Ian babysat Yev that day, because Svetlana was working and Mickey was too and it was almost as if he wasn’t crazy anymore.

But he can’t help but feel like there was a time being normal wasn’t so hard, so exhausting. When he was younger, and he’d lay in bed and smile all night instead of sleep because he had a secret about Mickey and it made him happy. There was so much going on, and he was capable of feeling so much – happy and sad and giddy and miserable, and there were good days and probably way more bad days but back then he wasn’t afraid that he’d trip over his own sadness and never get back up.

Fiona kept asking him if he wanted to see someone. Talk to someone, have them check his medication, _anything_ – but he didn’t. “Gallaghers don’t do therapy, Fi,” he said simply, brushing past her to his bedroom that hardly felt like his anymore.

“Yeah, and look how well that turned out for us.”

He doesn’t want to tell her that talking about his feelings feels like drowning in them. Hadn’t Mickey always mad fun of him for being a girl, for sharing his feelings all the time? And hadn’t that not made a bit of difference for him? He’d still lost, he’d still caught Monica’s “crazy”, and he didn’t believe that telling someone else about it was really going to make a difference.

So he kept his job, and he danced all night and he liked it, even if it wasn’t the same kind of like he used to have. And Mickey still came every night, even if it meant he hardly slept. They were adjusting, and as much as Ian hated it, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

 

* * *

 

 

One day, Mickey tries to wake Ian up, and Ian says he’s tired, he’ll get up in awhile. “Whatever, asshole,” Mickey says, and he puts on his pants and he goes to watch the baby. He tries to tell himself it’s nothing unusual, maybe it’s even fucking normal for a guy to be tired after rubbing his balls on guys all night.

But three hours later, Ian still won’t get out of bed, and it kind of pisses Mickey off. “No, come on, it’s noon and you’re getting up.” He grabs Ian’s arm and starts to pull, but Ian jerks his arm away. “What the fuck, man, you are not fucking doing this again.”

Ian looks up at him from his position with his face in the pillow, with just one eye that he barely even bothers to open. “Fuck you, Mick.”

“I wish you fuckin’ would.” Mickey straddles Ian then, and bends over so his face is just inches from Ian’s. “Come on, Freckles. Talk to me?”

Ian sighs, and his breath moves Mickey’s hair back out of his eye. “Just don’t want to today. Please, Mick, it’s not that fuckin’ serious. ‘M just tired.”

“You need something?” His fingers slide through Ian’s hair, and he forces his face to stay blank. Ian won’t get to see how worried he is. “I could get you something to eat, or do, or…shit, I don’t know.”

The corner of Ian’s mouth twitches. “Just stay here for a little bit? I’m still going to work tonight, it’s not a big deal. It’s not a thing. I’m just tired.”

_Fucking tired, that’s all_ , Mickey reminds himself as he cards through Ian’s hair with his fingers, feeling him breathe underneath him as he sleeps. He’s being a fucking girl. Ian’s allowed to be tired, and he’s not gonna make some lame fucking deal out of it. Being normal doesn’t mean never having a day to just sleep in and say fuck the world – it used to be a weekly ritual for Mickey, until he had stuff to give a shit about.

Everything was fine, he was just tired. Tired was something they could handle. Together.

 

* * *

 

 

Ian doesn’t tell Mickey he really has no interest in getting up when nighttime rolls around. He doesn’t even really tell himself, just gets out of bed when Mickey wakes him up and puts his clothes on.

He dances that night, just like all the other nights, but he doesn’t feel it at all. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he’d lost all feeling to the lower half of his body entirely. But his hips still work, and so he pretends he can feel it, pretends to enjoy it, and from the number of twenties that find their way into his shorts that night, it appears he’s better at faking it then really feeling it.

Mickey is standing nearby, watching, but for once Ian pretends not to see him. He looks so fucking worried it actually kind of pisses Ian off. He just wants to hear the music, to dance, and to pretend there isn’t any more to him than hips and dick and ass and mouth, because his clients are always so willing to tip with party favors and maybe that’s just what he needs…

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mickey’s hand is on his arm, and Ian looks down, noticing that the drink in his hand is only half gone. He isn’t really sure when it was full, but he shrugs, knocking Mickey’s hand away and downs the shot.

“What’re you talking about, Mick?” His voice is loud, trying to talk over the song.

“Fuck, you _can’t_ , okay?” His eyes dart down to the empty glass in Ian’s hand, and suddenly he understands. He laughs, and the sound seems odd to his ears.

“Fuck you.” He’s walking away then, and the bass is making him feel dizzy, or maybe that’s the alcohol. Was that his first drink, or his fifth? Was it a chaser for something a little more wild? Ian isn’t really sure anymore.

“Fuck who? How about fuck _you_ ,” Mickey is in front of him again, and Ian wants to push him, but he doesn’t want to cause a scene and get Mickey kicked out because wanting him gone isn’t the same as wanting him gone…but that doesn’t make any sense, does it?

“Fuck off,” Ian says, drawing in close to Mickey. He sees the glint in Mickey’s eye, knows he’s pushing him, but he kind of likes it that way. “Who do you think you are, my fucking mother or something?”

 

* * *

 

 

The laugh Ian lets out then is louder, more hysterical, than Mickey’s ever heard. He stares at Ian, who actually doubles over, panting in laughter. “The fuck is your problem, _Curtis_?”

“My…my mother!” He’s laughing so hard he almost can’t breathe.

“Look, let’s fucking…I don’t know, come outside of some shit, this is stupid…” He puts his hands on Ian again, but Ian snaps away so quickly Mickey’s hands are still out in midair. Ian snatches them in his own, and Mickey wants to punch him for it.

“You know what’s stupid?” Ian challenges. “Thinking my _mother_ would give two shits whether I get out of here. Thinking caring about me…oh man, like that’s anything like fucking Monica.”

Mickey wonders if this is what it feels like to be crazy. Ian’s mood swing is so out of the blue, Mickey feels truly helpless and lost and just…shit, surely he missed something here. “C’mon Ian, we’re going home. Just stop this, Jesus.” He wasn’t interested in having this “poor pity me, my mommy don’t love me” moment, right here in the middle of a damn club with a shirtless Ian wearing gold sparkly shorts. He wasn’t fucking doing this.

“Don’t tell me what to do. You want to leave, there’s the door.” He turns then, letting go of Mickey’s hands and trying to disappear into the dick crowd.

“Fucking hell. Seriously?” He doesn’t turn around as Mickey shouts at him. “You know what, fine. Go fuck yourself.”

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t want to be mad that he doesn’t see Mickey again that night, but he is. Mostly because it means he’s going to have to say sorry lately, and he doesn’t really feel sorry.

He does, however, feel wasted. He’s not sure what happened, because he swears he only remembers a couple drinks, but he just feels so drunk that he heads to the back room just to breathe for a moment. He sits – or falls, mostly – onto a crate, gripping the edge of it and just trying to breathe. He fumbles for his phone then, and thinks about calling Mickey, but before he can quite figure out where “Assfuck” is in his phone, he drops it on the ground.

The tears sting his eyes then, and for a moment he just hangs his head and wonders if he’s about to start crying again. He just wants Mickey to be there to find his damn phone for him and take him home, because he won’t admit he wants to go home but now he’s lonely and Mickey won’t forgive him. After everything Mickey does for him, he fucks it up.

His fingers find his phone on the floor, and when he brings it to his ear, it’s not “Assfuck” he dials, but another number. His other arm finds the shelves behind him, stabilizing him as he listens to the phone ring.

_This is Mon, and if you’re calling for money, I don’t have any, so FUCK OFF._

“Mom?” Ian’s voice is no more than a whisper, so he clears his throat again. “It’s Ian. Umm…I don’t really know if you paid your bill, so maybe you won’t even get this, but if you do…could you call me? I think I really fucked things up and I just…I don’t know. Please, mom?” He sounds like a little kid, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to need his mother. But he _is_ his mother.

“To continue you message, press 1,” The voice on the voicemail is interrupting his self-hatred, and he’s irritated by the whole damn thing.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hanging up the phone, not even sure if the message is going to send now. He brings his arm down off the shelf, and with it some glasses they were obviously storing back here for ‘safe keeping’. The irony makes him giggle to his drunken self as he reaches down to pick the broken glass up.

  

* * *

 

 

Of course Mickey didn’t leave. He couldn’t leave. He’d called a cab, and was sitting outside the club waiting for it, when he decided he didn’t give a shit what a little shit Ian wanted to be…he wasn’t taking his chances that the ginger wouldn’t make it home that night. Besides, he reasons, if Ian goes missing that’s more work for me, spending my day looking for his twinky ass.

His phone rings around one in the morning. _Firecrotch_. “Think of some other bullshit you forgot to say, asshole?” He really isn’t in any mood to talk, even if he is grateful to hear from him.

Ian’s breath is heavy on the other end of the phone. “It hurts,” he whispers.

“What the fuck happened?” Instantly, Mickey has forgotten they’re fighting. Ian’s hurt.

“Cut myself.”

“On purpose?”

“Fuck you.” Mickey closes his eyes, agreeing with Ian. He’s not gonna treat Ian like some delicate fucking kid. Of course he didn’t do it on purpose. He’s Ian, not Monica, no matter what the fucking Gallaghers think. “Mick, I’m drunk.”

“No fucking shit.”

“Didn’t mean to be though.”

Mickey sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. “I was trying to tell you that, asshole. You can’t drink on that lithium shit.”

Ian doesn’t talk for awhile, and Mickey is convinced he won’t again, when Ian says quietly, “Can you just come get me? I don’t want you to hate me anymore.”

Mickey opens his mouth to tell Ian he’s fucking stupid. He doesn’t hate him. Jesus, he’s been sitting outside a fucking gay bar all night just so Ian won’t be alone and he thinks he hates him? But Ian has already hung up the phone.

 

* * *

 

It takes Mickey awhile to find Ian, but to Ian, it feels like only seconds. He doesn’t realize until he feels Mickey’s hand on his face that he fell asleep.

“Fucking Christ, Ian, what the hell did you do?”

He’s not on the crate anymore, but he’s leaned back against it, his hand held close to his chest, the blood dried on it’s track down his arm.

“Didn’t mean to,” Ian says, his uninjured hand trailing down Mickey’s leg.

But as Mickey presses a towel into his hand and picks him up, Ian lets himself drift back to sleep without telling Mickey his secret: _it’s the best I’ve felt in ages._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, my poor babies. Hope you're all still enjoying and still reading - there are some really intense things on the horizon for these boys, and I hope you're around to read it. Thank you all for your feedback!


	5. Making a Mess of It

**Chapter Five: Making a Mess of It**

He downloaded a calendar app on his phone, not that he let Ian know that. But with everything going on, it was easier to keep track of it if he had it written down.

So that night, when Ian is taking a piss before bed, Mickey marks off the calendar with another check mark for a “good day”, and realizes as he scrolls up that this makes it a month – a whole month of good days in a row.

He’s practically grinning when Ian comes back in the room, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. “What?” Ian asks, though he smiles too, because he always smiles when Mickey looks like that.

“Nothing,” Mickey says, forcing the smile off his face. “Come ‘ere.”

They kiss for a while, longer than Mickey usually lets happen before they move on to other things. But maybe he’s a little distracted today, still focusing on the milestone they’ve reached. He knows it’s Ian who’s really accomplished it, but he can’t help but feel like he’s accomplished something too. It took a lot for Mickey to just be happy with shit, and for a month now, he’d actually appreciated things. He fucking woke up in the morning and looked at his redhead and felt _good and grateful_ and all that other shit people are supposed to feel.

Ian ducks down in the blankets, and Mickey’s hips rise to meet him. He knows the meds have been affecting their sex life, but in the last month Ian’s been more than willing to take care of Mickey even if his own equipment is suffering from the meds.

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey does this adorable thing when he likes the spot Ian’s tongue finds and he grips the sheets and arches his back and Ian would never dare tell him, but it’s kinda girly and he thinks it’s cute as shit.

“F-fucking fuck,” Mickey groans, and Ian smirks against him.

Later, he knows Mickey will bitch when he tries to fall asleep and Ian budges him out bed to fix the sheets he’s ripped out of place.

Ian shifts to get a better angle, and as Mickey arches again, Ian’s thigh brushes the mattress and it stings. Ian smiles again, and he presses down harder.

This is what it would have been like, if none of this had ever happened. If he was whole and sane and they didn’t have to worry about all of this. They would be happy, just like this.

 

* * *

 

 

The first “X” day after the check marks doesn’t seem like an X day. He’s laying on the bed, waiting for Ian to come back from the Gallagher’s house, and he’s already concluded the day as a checkmark day. He’s too lazy to get his phone out to do it just yet, and he busies himself with a wank while he waits.

He is half asleep when he hears a thud in the living room, and is already pulling a gun out of the drawer when Mandy screams his name.

Svetlana is standing against the wall, holding the baby, and Mandy is standing in front of her, her hands out in front of her. Ian is there too, though he never texted Mickey to tell him he was on his way.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ian’s head is down, but he’s holding a knife in his hand. His hand is shaking, so much so he’s probably bruising his wrist with the handle. “Mandy, what the fuck?”

“He just…he just came in like this,” she says quietly. She won’t meet Mickey’s eye, but he can tell she’s about to cry.

“Fucking orange boy. I told you he need help,” Svetlana spits, and Ian lurches forward, but Mickey grabs his shoulder and pushes him against the wall. His hands smacks the wall and the knife drops to the floor.

“Get the fuck out,” Mickey snaps over his shoulder, and then “fucking GO” when Svetlana hesitates.

When they’re finally alone, Mickey shoves Ian again, knocking him back hard against the wall. “You back yet?”

Ian won’t look at him. “They were going to fucking hurt you, I couldn’t…”

Mickey takes his hands off Ian, and Ian slides down the wall till he’s sitting on the floor. Mickey continues to stare at the spot on the wall where Ian’s face used to be. “Jesus, Ian, no…”

A choked sob comes from the floor, and Mickey is around Ian in an instant, hovering and unsure where to touch or what to do. “I just thought…I don’t know what happened. I was so sure…fuck, I don’t feel good, Mick.”

He dips to the side, and throws up right there on the fucking carpet. “Shit,” is all Mickey has time to mutter before it happens again. Then Ian’s crying, hard and loud and fuck if Mickey signed up for this shit. “Everything’s cool, okay? Calm down, it’s fine…” the words come out of his mouth like he believes them, but he’s hardly even listening to himself. His heart is pounding in his ears. This isn’t Ian. This isn’t manic Ian, this isn’t depressed Ian…he doesn’t know what this is, and the only thing worse than dealing with this whole thing everyday is dealing with something he can’t even identify.

“They were going to kill you, I heard them. I swear I did, Mick, you gotta believe me…they said…I know they didn’t…but they did.” He throws up again, still sobbing, and the smell burns Mickey’s nostrils and brings tears to his eyes. Or at least, he wants to believe it’s the smell making his eyes water.

He rubs circles on Ian’s back as Ian cries and shakes, unsure what to say. “They weren’t, okay? Shit, Ian, it’s fine. Just calm down and relax and it’ll get better.”

Ian leans back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling and gasping for air. “How did I…fuck, Mick, I didn’t mean to. I don’t remember…” He grabs Mickey’s arms at the elbows, staring at him, but Mickey sees that Ian isn’t even really seeing him. “Don’t let him hurt you again, okay? Please. Don’t let him take you away anymore.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He’s yelling now, but this scares him and he doesn’t know what else to do but yell. “Fuck, Ian, what the fuck are you doing? Please talk to me.” He studies Ian’s eyes, praying for an answer. “Did you take something? Fuck, just tell me, okay? I promise everything’s okay.” He’s never actually prayed for someone to be tripping on acid before, but there’s a first time for everything, and those first times seem to happen a lot where Ian’s concerned. Drugs he can handle. Drugs go away eventually. He comes down and he’s fine, but if this isn’t drugs….

Ian covers his eyes with his hands, sobbing again. “Just make it stop, I don’t want her to hurt you – FUCK YOU!” He holds the “you” for a long time, screaming so loud Mickey instinctively turns his head away, a tear slipping down his cheek.

Mandy’s standing in the doorway, watching, and Mickey wants to yell at her, but he doesn’t want to be alone with this. He can’t be. They were happy, damn it. And now this is happening and they are falling apart. He just wanted another check mark.

Ian throws up again, longer this time. He’s gagging for so long that Mickey starts to fear he’s just going to die that way. But finally it stops, and he looks up at Mickey, eyes wide with fear. “Please help me, Mick.”

Mickey grabs him, pulling Ian into his lap and cradling his head. Ian’s legs are shaking, and he’s still blubbering, and Mickey tries to shush him. “It’s okay, Ian, I got you. I got you, man, just…fucking calm down.” He looks up at Mandy, and he knows she sees that he’s crying, but he doesn’t bother to wipe the tears away because that would mean not touching Ian and he can’t take that right now. “Call 911.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mandy grabs his hand as the door swings shut. The doctors told him he can’t go in, and didn’t seem to care that “oh yes I fuckin’ can.”

“Just let them help,” she whispers. “We need to call his family.”

Mickey doesn’t look at her, because every so often the doctors move and he can still catch a glimpse of Ian through the window. They sedated him when they got to the house, because he was crying and he hit one of them when they tried to pull him away. It made Mickey feel proud and also a little miserable, because even though he’d failed Ian so miserably, he was still what Ian wanted most.

“Fuck them,” he mutters, because the last thing he wants is the Gallaghers there. He was with them that day, and look was happened. He knows, rationally, it isn’t their fault, but he can’t help but feel like this wouldn’t have happened if they’d just been together. Plus, he’s sure they’ll be smug. This is why Ian should’ve gotten help already, they’ll say.

He looks so sick and little on that damn bed, and they’re cutting his clothes and that’s not fair because Ian really likes that shirt and now it’s ruined just like every other damn thing.

“They need to know.”

“Fuckin’ call them then, leave me alone.”

She stops touching him then, and maybe she leaves or maybe she doesn’t, Mickey doesn’t notice. Because now they’re cutting off Ian’s underwear and Mickey wants to go in there and shove them all away because none of them deserve to see that, that’s _his_ and how dare they…

And then he sees Ian’s legs.

His hips look more like raw meat than the milky white things he remembers, the last time Ian let him see them. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so much like the medicine lowering Ian’s sex drive as the fact he had this little fucking secret.

Mickey tries to breathe, but it comes out as a gasp. Gallagher was smart – he kept his cuts to that little space covered by those booty shorts he wore to work, and stopped being naked in front of Mickey…this was fucking why.

“What the fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;_; My poor babies. This chapter hurts me. But answers are on their way! As always, thank you for your support!


	6. Hard Day's Night

**Chapter Six: _Hard Day’s Night_**

Fifteen hours after Ian is admitted to the hospital, Mickey leaves for the first time. It isn’t to go far, just to have smoke or fucking _something_ because he can’t breathe inside those walls anymore.

He’s lucky, because one of the picnic tables out behind the hospital is in direct sight of Ian’s window. Least this way, if something happens and the nurses and doctors come rushing in, he’ll be able to tell and get back.

“Got a light?” Mickey’s hardly even put the cigarette between his teeth, and his hands were already in his pockets to fish out his lighter.

“You fuckin’ followin’ me?”

Lip doesn’t answer right away, sitting on top of the table beside Mickey and pulling a joint out of his pocket. “That hurt half as much as it looks like it does?”

Mickey’s hand reflexively grazes his cheekbone, which is already about double the size of his other one. “Don’t flatter yourself.” _Besides_ , Mickey resists the urge to say, _it certainly doesn’t hurt any more than that fucking shiner_.

Mickey Milkovich has kicked a lot ass in his life – enough to know that the person getting the whooping maybe didn’t always quite deserve it. But if Terry Milkovich had taught him only one useful piece of information, it was that being wrong didn’t mean you take a beating like a bitch. So sure, when Lip had swung at him when the Gallaghers came bursting into the waiting room, Mickey’s first thought was that he probably kind of deserved it. His second thought was that Lip hit like a girl, and he swung back three times before Lip even registered they were actually having a fight.

It took a good three hours to get through all the paperwork to check himself back out of the emergency room, because the damn nurses insisted he and Lip get checked out, and Fiona yelled at both of them until they agreed not to press charges. Luckily, the process was just long enough to eat up the time it took the doctors to figure out what the hell had happened to Ian.

_Chronic toxicity_ , they called it, fancy doctor language for “these pills that you thought were helping were actually slowly poisoning him until he went batshit crazy.” They tried to tell Fiona that it didn’t mean lithium was a terrible choice for him, but that they really should have brought him in sooner, because one person’s dosage is not universal, and they shouldn’t have tried to solve it on their own.

Fiona rounded on Mickey when the doctor left the room, but Lip started asking Debbie and Carl if they were hungry and she got distracted.

Mickey holds his lighter out to Lip now, and it’s not until after Lip’s lit the joint and handed the lighter back that he speaks again. “Mandy okay?”

Mickey shrugs. His sister is pretty high up there on the list of things he doesn’t want to speak to Lip Gallagher about. “Made her go home to get some rest, but I’m sure she’ll be back in a couple hours. Ask her your fucking self.”

Mandy’s been amazing since they got here, not that Mickey would ever admit it out loud. She was the one who said they were Ian’s cousins, his _close_ cousins, when the doctors first came out and said they could only speak to family about his condition. It was Mandy who told everyone to lay off him, because he’d been there for Ian and where the fuck had they been? It was Mandy who had the right mix of kindness or decency or whatever the hell it was that made people still like her even when she was being a bitch to them.

“Fi’s got to work in thirty, you going in when she’s done?” Mickey would’ve yelled at the nurse about what a shitty, useless rule their “1 guest at a time” policy was, but the nurse had made it very clear that anyone who didn’t like it could leave, and he wasn’t going to risk not seeing Ian at all. So they’d divvied up shifts, as soon as they were allowed to go visit, and even though it pissed him off, he let Fiona go first in exchange for twice as long with him afterward before Lip would come in the morning.

Mickey doesn’t even answer Lip, because Lip knows he’s going in next and Mickey isn’t going to play this bullshit small talk game. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants Fiona to leave and he wants to go in that room and see for himself that Ian’s okay.

“He never came over, you know,” Lip says. “I would’ve noticed…I would’ve done something. But I figured he was with you.”

Mickey flicks his cigarette on the ground, launching himself off the picnic table and grounding it into the pavement with his feet. “Well, he wasn’t.” He walks away then. He and Lip aren’t friends. They’re two people who care about the same person, care enough to kill for him – but they aren’t friends.

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey can’t move out of the doorway, when he first sees Ian. Fiona is still sitting in a chair by his bed, clutching his hand to her cheek and crying, trying to force herself to say goodbye and leave. She sees Mickey, and she wipes her tears away quickly, sniffing and trying to act like she was never crying at all. “Mickey’s here, Ian,” she whispers, using one of her hands to brush Ian’s hair away from his face. “He’s gonna sit with you for awhile, okay? I gotta go to work but I’ll be back as soon as it’s over, okay? I’ll sneak you in a chili dog, okay?”

She squeezes his hand four times before she finally tears herself away, and she stands in front of Mickey, blocking his view of the bed. “It’s not your fault. I know that. I told Lip to give you those pills, and I –“

Mickey cuts her off with the look he shoots her. “You think he gives a shit whose fault it is? You think he really blames any of us?” He should, he should blame all of them but especially Mickey, but that’s beside the point. Ian doesn’t blame anyone for anything, besides apparently himself for everything.

Fiona smiles, and a tear slips down her cheek. “It’s crazy how much you know him.” Mickey knows that’s not the truth though. There’s nothing crazy about how well he knows Ian. What’s crazy is how much everyone _doesn’t_ know about him – that there’s a whole world of people who have interacted with him without coming back for more, without memorizing every bit of them.

He walks over to the bed slowly, after she leaves. The nurse told them he was still sedated, until they could stabilize his tremors and get his tests back to decide on a course of meds, but still, seeing him asleep like this in the bed – he looked so fucking _small_.

Mickey wants to hold his hand, or lay down next to him, but he’s Mickey and he’s still learning how to do this kind of shit so he settles for holding the crook of Ian’s elbow and staring at where their skin meets. He can’t look at Ian’s face, because he looks like a little baby face when he sleeps and it makes him think of the Kash N Grab and the dugouts and a whole lot of other shit that seems like it happened to someone else now.

So he just looks at where his fingers touch Ian’s skin. There’s blood caked under Mickey’s fingernails, and he’s pretty sure it Lip’s. Ian’s veins looks so blue in his arm right now, and Mickey tries to remember if they were always that blue or maybe it’s just because he’s sick.

“I fucking hate you sometimes, you know that?” Mickey says, his voice not quite a whisper but not really out loud either, because he’s so aware he’s the only one speaking _and_ the only one listening that he doesn’t even know how to talk. “I don’t do hospitals, Red. But I’m sitting here, aren’t I? And I’m talking to you like we’re in some soap opera shit and I’m not gonna do that for long so just listen. If you can hear me, wake your ass up. Tell me you’re okay and let’s get the hell out of here.”

He glances up at Ian long enough to see his heartfelt plea hasn’t made a bit of difference.

He tries to get some sleep, rests his head on the little strip of bed by Ian’s hand, but Ian’s doing enough sleeping for the both of them, so he just contents himself with trying to memorize the rhythm of Ian’s heart monitor, or whatever that machine that keeps beeping is.

The nurse comes in every so often to check on Ian, but Mickey makes it a point not to talk to her, even though she tries to make small talk with him. He’s not here to make friends, he’s here to make sure the only friend he needs makes it through the damn night.

He’s still awake when the sun rises, and though there’s not a good view of it from Ian’s window, Mickey takes a picture anyway, because even if it doesn’t show the sun, the sky’s still a bunch of different colors, and Ian likes that kind of shit.

The nurse is there, when Lip arrives to take over Ian-sitting duty. Mickey doesn’t really want to leave, but he knows the rest of the Gallaghers matter to Ian too, so he stands up. He wants to say see you later or I’ll miss you or something, who fucking knows, but he’s not about to say that kind of stuff in front of Lip.

“Everything okay last night? We tried texting you.”

The nurse fumbles with the IV bag as she goes to hang it back on it’s little post, and Mickey thinks that people like her who are so shitty at their job are exactly the reason he never wanted Ian in the hospital in the first place. Bitch can’t even hang an IV bag right, and Fiona really thought they were better qualified to take care of Ian?

“Nothing different,” Mickey said with a shrug.

The nurse makes a mark on Ian’s chart and turns to leave. The last four times she was there, she said “well, until next time” to Mickey, but maybe she’s still mad that he said “oh, fuck off” in response last time, because this time she doesn’t say anything at all.

He waits until he’s pretty sure she’s blocking Lip’s view of them and gives Ian’s fingers a little squeeze. But his hand is still around Ian’s when he hears a thud, and looks up to see Lip has the nurse pressed against the wall, his forearm over her chest.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing here?”

Mickey is around the bed before he even thinks about moving, standing between Lip and the bed. He’s missed something here, and the fact that this bitch has been in this room five times now makes him nervous.

The blonde woman turns her wide eyes to Mickey, and she opens her mouth to talk, but Lip jerks his arm, jabbing his elbow into her shoulder. “No, no, you talk to me. What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“Jesus, Lip, what the fuck? Calm your shit already.” Mickey’s heart is races as he speaks, and he hates feeling like he has no idea what’s going on. Mickey doesn’t do clueless well.

Lip looks back at Mickey, then at the nurse. “Mickey, I’d like to introduce you to someone. Meet Monica. Monica, meet Mickey.”

This time, when Mickey locks eyes with the nurse, the look that passes between them is one of mutual recognition…and mutual anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, I have been waiting to get to this part! I hope you all are still enjoying, and thank you for so much great feedback! I'm absolutely blown away! 
> 
> Hopefully I will have the next chapter up tomorrow, but I do work weird shifts this weekend, so it's possible there will be a day or two gap between chapters. But I won't leave you hanging too long! ;)


	7. While You Were Sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm baaaaack! So sorry it's taken me a bit to update - but I've got lots of time to write the next couple days, so I'm really hoping to get stuff back on track to give you daily updates again! I wrote an extra long chapter this time, if that helps!

**Chapter Seven: _While You Were Sleeping_**

“So, you might as well tell me about him.”

He feels the mattress sag behind him, and then Monica’s legs are pressed against the back of his. Ian moves, so he’s lying on his back. She plays with his hair, and he stares at the spider web on the ceiling, trying to find the exact thread that started it. If he can do that, maybe he can trace it, tell exactly how it went from one piece of string to the intricate design it is now. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh, come on!” Monica says, her voice rising in a playful way. But then they both remember the other woman there, the white haired lady who’s name Ian still doesn’t really remember, and she talks quieter, nudging Ian’s shoulder. “We both know there’s plenty to tell. Please, Ian, I don’t get to know this kind of stuff often and…maybe I can help.”

Ian sighs. It’s really late, and neither he or Monica have slept yet – but they don’t sleep much. Ian doesn’t really feel tired, and Monica…Monica says she’s just too excited to see him to sleep. That she knows he’ll leave some day and then she’ll hate herself for spending time sleeping when she could have enjoyed him.

“His name’s Ned,” Ian says, and he’s telling Monica a story about Lishman and Lishman’s new guy and what poor sports they are about everything because he goes out _one night_ and makes a couple friends and they act like it’s the end of the damn world.

Monica listened the whole time, twisting locks of his hair together and untwisting them. Somewhere during his story, Ian begins to realize that he’s really talking to his mom about a relationship and it’s just so _weird_. What if Fiona could see them now? But he doesn’t like thinking about Fiona or how weird it is to talk to Monica, so he focuses on his story and on how stupid Ned’s new boyfriend is.

“But he’s not your guy,” Monica says, drawing Ian’s attention back from his story. “Who’s your guy, baby?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Your guy,” Monica repeats impatiently, as if it’s supposed to be so obvious what that means. When Ian continues to stare blankly at her, she nudges his shoulder. “Don’t play dumb, baby. Tell me about the guy who’s so special it’s worth joining the army just to get away from him.”

Ian considers telling her about Kash – just pretending that there’s something special enough about a 30-year-old married closeted Muslim to cause all this trouble. But it seems like too much of an injustice to lie.

“You remember Mickey, right? From when Frank’s mom died? And Mandy’s dad came by to try to kill me or whatever?” Looking back, that may have been the moment Ian most felt like Monica’s son. Until now, hopefully. “Well, I guess the trouble started ‘cause he walked in on us…and the only thing Terry Milkovich hates more than a guy who knocks his daughter up is a guy who’d knock his son up, you know, if that was a thing.”

He’s trying to make a joke out of it, to act like it’s nothing but some boring old story he’s tired of telling, but as he explains to Monica all about how Terry forced Svetlana…and Mickey agreed to marry her…and how he asked Mickey to just give him a reason to stay and he didn’t…he doesn’t really find the humor in it.

“Oh baby,” Monica says softly, when he stops talking. “My poor baby. Poor Mickey.”

_Poor Mickey?_ He’s half sitting up, his eyebrows practically in his hairline as he looks at her. “If he would’ve just been _honest_ , for once…”

“He’d probably be dead, and you would be too.” She says this so calmly it unnerves Ian. No mother should be that nonchalant about their kid dying, but it _is_ Monica, so what can he expect? “Terry Milkovich isn’t the kind of guy you just tell the truth to. It’s a shitty situation for everybody, baby. Love always is.”

Ian snorts, laying back down. There’s no _love_ with him and Mickey. There’s lust and fucking and maybe there _could have_ been love, but there wasn’t. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Mickey never would have been a real thing with me, even if there wasn’t a Russian whore and a baby. And I wanted to move on with my life. I just have so many _ideas_ , you know?” Monica nods, because she does know – they’ve already filled a notebook and a half with their ideas, on those nights they don’t sleep and they plan how to change the world. “I have so many ideas and there’s so much I want to do and it doesn’t seem worth it to spend my whole life being everybody’s dirty little secret. It’s always like that for me – they’re married or they’re old or they’re old and married or so far back in the closet they smell like moth balls, and I’m just wasting my time thinking it’s gonna change.”

“I guess that was one thing I never appreciated about your father,” Monica remarks. “Whatever kind of fucked up he is, at least he’s never divorced me. I’m the only one who’s never been his mistress.”

If Fiona was there, Ian allows himself to think…she’d tell Ian that if _Monica_ of all people has it better than you, it’s a pretty sure sign you’ve fucked up majorly. And if _Frank and Monica’s_ relationship is something you feel jealous of…you might as well just give up now.

“Let’s go do something,” Monica says, grabbing Ian’s hand and trying to pull him off the mattress.

“Like what?” Ian asks, not standing.

“I don’t know, I just want to…oh, baby, I just want you to be happy. I know!” She drops down beside him, sitting on her knees. Her eyes are lit up, and she bounces against her feet as she talks. “Let’s go to the White Swallow!”

Ian doesn’t want to go, because if his string of relationships isn’t any indication, he’s not actually one for the flamboyant crowd, but Monica insists that that’s the _problem_. He keeps doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, and doesn’t he know that’s the definition of crazy? Ian needs a change, he needs to find himself someone who isn’t afraid to make him the main attraction and not the side bang.

 

* * *

 

 

Four hours after they get to the White Swallow, Ian has a job bartending. Being a Gallagher means always being on the lookout for easy cash, and it’s already clear to him this place can be really lucrative. Five guys hit on him within the first twenty minutes, and though he loses Monica in the crowd before too long, he doesn’t really mind. The music thumping so loudly he can’t make out the words seems to fall in sync with the bass that’s been pounding in his head for weeks now, and he finds himself grinding and dancing to the music without a second thought. This place makes sense to him, and while he’s there, he doesn’t have to remind himself not to think about pale little dark-haired boys and his family and all those other things that get in the way of his ideas.

It isn’t until the next night, when he’s checking out his angles in the mirror to make sure the shorts he cut earlier were short enough to _hint_ at stuff but not really _show_ it, that he realizes Monica isn’t coming back. It’d been so late when he’d left the White Swallow that he’d assumed she was already back home. She wasn’t, but it wasn’t until that night that he realized she had no intention of coming back.

He didn’t want it to bother him. After all, he’d never intended to stay with her long term. She was a stop on his road, and eventually he planned to be far away from Chicago. But still, she was the one who just finished saying she didn’t want to sleep because it’d mean less time with him, and now she was just gone without even so much as a goodbye.

The White Swallow irritates him that night, because every time a guy grinds on him it makes him remember that these were the same sort of dicks Monica used to distract him so she could duck out on him. He tried to call her, but she sent him to voicemail after the second ring. And then some old guy tipped him with a baggy of cocaine instead of a twenty dollar bill, and for the rest of the night he forgot he was anyone’s child, anyone’s brother, anyone’s ex-fucking cooler shag.

Life was a lot better as Curtis, the name he filed with the bar manager. Curtis was young and attractive and sexy without trying, and the guys who came to the bar loved it because when he smiled, he convinced them they were the first person who ever made his lips curl that way.

He blows three guys his first week at the White Swallow, and he’s pretty sure he only maybe would have liked one of them. It’s the guy who cries when they’re done because he’s got a wife at home.

So maybe Ian doesn’t change all that much, when it comes to being the mistress. But little by little, Ian Gallagher gets over Mickey Milkovich, the same way you get over a dead mother who actually matters or a gunshot to the heart.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s my _son!_ ” Monica insists, yet again. She keeps saying this, whenever Lip says she should just leave. She hasn’t said much of anything else, answering all the questions about where she’s been and why she’s been there and what she’s doing here and why she pretended to be nurse all night with “but he’s my son”, as if that makes any sense.

Mickey is livid, but he’s stayed quiet most of the conversation. He wouldn’t appreciate it, if the shoe were on the other foot and Mandy was in that bed and Terry was standing there, for Lip to keep putting in his two cents. He’s just stood there, still between Monica and Ian, resting his leg against the bed by Ian’s hand.

“Like that’s ever mattered before!” Lip yells back.

The door opens, and Fiona’s already talking before she’s even stopped to look at any of them. “Jesus, guys, the nurses are about to kick us all out, you mind telling me what the hell you guys have found to still fight about?” She looks up then, and as her eyes fall on Monica, her mouth falls open. “Mom?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Hi, baby.” Monica’s smiling, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Monica’s been playing nursemaid all night,” Lip explains, talking over his shoulder to Fiona without turning his head from Monica. “She decided that instead of real medical care, she’d rather risk Ian’s life so she could play dress-up.”

“He’s my son!” Monica insists again, louder this time. “It was just changing an IV bag and making sure nothing was blowing up or anything. It’s not like you guys would’ve just let me see him if I had come –“

The door opens again, and this time it’s a nurse, and she looks anything but happy. “All of you, out, now.”

Everyone opens their mouths to object, but she cuts them each off with another simple, “I said out. Now. Which of those two words did you all not understand?”

“He shouldn’t have to be in here alone just because they can’t stop yelling,” Mickey insists.

“Well, he won’t be alone. The doctor’s coming in a moment to look him over and you’d have to leave anyway but since none of you all can behave like civilized people, I say you leave now.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey sits in the hallway, because it’s as close as the nurses will let him be now, so it’s as far as he’s willing to go. Monica and Lip and Fiona have taken their shouting to the waiting room, and every so often he still hears bits of what they’re shouting.

He doesn’t know how long he’s sitting on the ground before Mandy shows up. She’s walking down the hall to him when he notices her, and she looks pissed, even more so than usual. “What the hell is going on? Ran into Lip and he about bit my head off.”

Mickey shrugs. “Guess their mom’s back.”

“Monica? Seriously?”

He shrugs again, because last he checked the Gallaghers only had one mother, so of course that’s who he meant. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with this shit – not that he ever did, but today especially is trying. He’s tired and worried and he just wants Ian back at his house where the Gallaghers mostly left them alone and there weren’t any random mothers dropping by.

“Do you know how he is?” Mickey’s on his feet now, because it’s not Mandy asking. Monica’s standing there now, looking a little lost. She’s not wearing the nurse scrubs anymore, and Mickey is pretty sure he’s seen that shirt on Fiona before.

“Assholes haven’t said anything yet,” Mickey finally says. He isn’t sure if he cares to talk to her, but it seems easier to give her an answer and send her on her way then waste time arguing with her about it.

“It’s hard to believe, but they really do help.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The doctors. They’ll help him. He may not like it, but they help.”

“He doesn’t need doctors.” He is not having this conversation. Not with Monica, of all people. He has a policy about talking about people who aren’t around to have a say for themselves, and he’s suddenly very aware of how far away Ian is.

Monica folds her arms over her chest. “ _I_ needed them.”

He crosses the hall in half the steps it normally would, and he’s staring Monica down, his face inches from hers. “Good thing he isn’t anything fucking like you, then. Given he’s worth about a hundred of you, I don’t think what helps you makes one bit of difference.” She smiles, and Mickey’s fists are balled and ready to fly before his brain catches up with what a stupid fucking idea that would be. “You don’t know anything about him,” he says, instead of hitting her.

“I know about you, though.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He feels exposed by her words, though he doesn’t know why. He knows Ian spent time with her, before Mickey came and found him, but they haven’t talked about it much. He wants to believe Monica doesn’t know anything, that Ian’s protected their time together like the secret it always used to be, but now he doubts it.

“Listen, bitch.” Mandy’s between them now, practically chest to chest with Monica. Mickey takes a step back, because he’s not dumb enough to get in the middle of this. “I have had about enough of you. Ian’s my best friend and Lip…Lip is too and I am so fucking sick of you ruining their lives. You come in and you destroy shit and then you just leave everybody else to pick up the pieces. And you know what? Whatever. They’re bigger and better than you and they get on just fine without you. But you are not bringing your crazy bullshit into _my_ family.”

It’s then that Monica gets a look of recognition on her face. “You’re Mandy.”

Mandy blinks at her. “Congratulations, you actually paid attention to your kid for two fucking seconds and learned the name of his friend, great parenting.”

Monica shakes her head. “You’re not his friend. Friends don’t do what you did.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, lady?” Mickey speaks now, not because he really wants to get involved in this, but now she’s got him curious. He feels like he’s missed something again, and he’s not in the mood to be blindsided anymore.

“You used him,” Monica says, looking up at Mandy as if she’s already won. “You lied to your father and you told him Ian got you pregnant to protect whatever Southside loser it was you probably didn’t remember in the first place.”

He has to work fast, but Mickey grabs Mandy’s arms before her fist connects with Monica’s face. “Alright, alright, just cool your shit for a second,” he says, pushing her back firmly and gently. He stands between them now, his back to Monica. “There’s a baby?” This is news to him, and now he’s pissed, because Monica Fucking Gallagher is the last person who needs to know something about _his_ family before he does.

Mandy’s eyes are wide, but she doesn’t speak. He’s about to ask again, but now the doctor is there, and if Mickey didn’t know before, he can wait to know till he finds out about Ian.

“You’re with the Gallagher boy, right?” The doctor asks, referencing the chart to make sure he gets the name right. It pisses Mickey off, because the doctor should know his name. He should matter. When they nod, he continues, “He’s awake now, and we’re going to bring our specialist down in a moment to speak with him about his treatment options, and then you can see him. Do any of you know a ‘Monica’?”

“I’m Monica.” He wishes now that he would’ve let Mandy hit her, because then maybe she wouldn’t be talking. It worries him that this doctor even knows her name. Ian’s awake. He wants to focus on that, be happy about that, but he’s worried because they’re talking about Monica and he’s gonna talk to those doctors about treatment without Mickey and what if they take him away before he can see him?

“He asked for you. You can come with me. You’ll only have a few moments, but he insisted.”

As she darts down the hall behind the doctor, Mickey feels like he can’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me, aha! I know everything just exploded at the end of the chapter...but don't worry, we will get to all of it! Thank you as always for all your great responses - last chapter I got a lot of feedback, and all of it so much to me! So until next time...stay lovely everyone!


	8. Stay With Me

**Chapter Eight: _Stay With Me_**

The doctors finally leave Ian’s room around dinnertime. Mickey doesn’t see Monica again, though he looks for her. It seems to be the theme of the day, because Mandy ran off somewhere too, before he could talk to her.

Apparently, it’s Mickey Ian’s asked for this time. Fiona seems a little mad about it, but nods her head, taking a seat on the edge of the waiting room chair. Mickey wants to be glad about it, but as he walks down the hallway to Ian’s room, he just feels mad. Mad because Ian asked for Monica first. Mad that he’s waited around all damn day. Mad that Ian was fucking slicing up his legs instead of just talking to him, and letting him be an ass and act like things were okay when they weren’t.

“Hey, Mick.” Mickey is standing against the door, his back against it and his knees bent. He can’t seem to move to the bed, or even really look directly at Ian.

Mickey shrugs in response. All he can think about are the ugly red marks on Ian’s legs and how he didn’t know. Ian lied to him, and he doesn’t want to be a bitch about it, but he had always thought it was something good about them that they didn’t lie.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Mickey asks, kicking his foot absentmindedly against the door behind him.

Ian’s voice is hoarse, and he looks tired already. “Fuckin’ up.”

Mickey snorts, because that’s just about the biggest understatement he’s ever heard. “Whatever,” he says, though it certainly doesn’t feel like ‘whatever’.

He looks up then, and sees Ian’s holding his hand up for him. So he moves closer, but he doesn’t take Ian’s hand. He’s not that much of a pussy. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” He sits down in the same chair he sat in earlier, but as he does he nudges it with his foot so he’s sitting a little further away.

“I don’t know. I don’t even really remember what happened,” Ian explains, then swallows hard. “Just felt really sick and scared and…I don’t know.”

“’M not talking about that night,” Mickey says, which is news to him, because even he had thought he was talking about that night.

“Then what?”

Mickey wants to say that he’s asking about the cuts. About why Ian would ever choose something like that over him, and…just _why_. That’s what he wants to know. He wants to know why. But the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to yell. And even Mickey isn’t enough of an asshole to yell at the guy after he just woke up in the hospital. “Forget it. How ya feelin’?”

“Tired,” Ian answers, leaning back against the pillow. “Confused. Different. Kinda low.” It’s a word Mickey’s really starting to fucking hate. He feels afraid of it, because it means he might lose Ian again and after everything that’s happened, he just wants a break. “D’you know what happened?”

“The meds…they weren’t good for you. Built up inside and made you go fucking batshit.”

Ian laughs, and though this is hardly the way Mickey meant to explain things to him, it doesn’t seem he’s taking it that hard. Mickey even lets himself smile at the sound of Ian’s laugh, but when he looks at him, Ian isn’t laughing anymore. His shoulders are shaking just the same, but now he’s crying, his thumbs dug into his eyes like it’s stopping anything.

Maybe it’s because he still looks so little in that bed, or maybe it’s because being mad at Ian just isn’t the same as being mad at other people, but Mickey finds himself pushing his way onto the bed, his arm sliding around the back of Ian’s neck and pulling him into his chest. “I got you,” he whispers. “I always got you.”

Ian’s breath catches in his throat and he coughs into Mickey’s chest. “Don’t know why you bother,” he mutters.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey replies, smiling because he knows Ian can’t see it. “I’m not playing this pity the hospital kid shit. Apparently I ‘bother’ because I really love the smell of vomit in my carpet.”

He thinks this makes Ian laugh, but it’s gone so fast he might as well have imagined it. Ian’s quiet, until he finally says, “They wanted me to check into the psych ward.”

Mickey says “Oh” back before he even means to speak, and follows it afterward with, “So are you going?” because he started to speak so he’s sort of got to say something.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath, but when Ian shakes his head ‘no’ against Mickey’s chest, he lets out the air in his lungs and realizes how relieved he is. “They’re gonna start me on new meds tonight, and it may take a long time, but I said I’d go to therapy or whatever but I don’t want to stay here. I hate this place.” Mickey does too, and he presses a kiss into Ian’s hair before he stops himself because Ian isn’t leaving him for once and he’s so grateful he doesn’t care. “The meds, though…it might be hard, at first, to figure it out.”

“Because the lithium was so fucking easy?” Mickey asks, almost laughing.

Ian moves then, so he’s sitting up more, but he’s still staring down at his hands and not looking at Mickey. “Monica wanted me to stay here. She told me it can be really awful, trying to get balanced out.”

Mickey swallows. They haven’t discussed Monica at all, he realizes. And now he’s angry, because if Monica discussed this with him then she might have changed his mind, and maybe something bad is happening now. “I can deal with awful,” Mickey says lamely, sounding as if he’s trying to defend himself. “We got through this fucking picnic fine so far, haven’t we?”

“You don’t have to, though,” Ian says. He’s messing with the blanket and not looking at Mickey, and his cheeks are red. “Monica said I could stay with her and just try to get it together and then, I don’t know. Fuck, Mick. You’ve got a life.”

_You’re my life._ Mickey stops himself before the words come out of his mouth. He feels a little dizzy, and he knows it’s lame, but it’s true. He’s molded his life around this boy sitting beside him, and he doesn’t even really know how he’s supposed to just let it go. _You’re my life and you’re staying with me and we’ll figure it out together and I need you not to go._ “I know pimpin’ ain’t easy man, but shit, I have the time, okay? You’re not going anywhere. What did you tell her?” He was trying to make a joke, but he doesn’t feel like much of anything is funny right now.

Ian shrugs, and Mickey gets off the bed and stands in front of him, but Ian still won’t look at him, the asshole. “Ian. Ian, what the fuck did you tell her?”

Ian shrugs again, and Mickey is about to shake him, but then Ian looks up at him. He looks so fucking miserable and alone and Mickey just sputters because Ian’s sitting right here and he’s hurting and Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck to do. “I think I should go. You don’t need this kind of shit, Mick.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what I need,” Mickey says angrily. His eyes are wet now, and he’s just so pissed off. This can’t really be happening to him. Ian’s not going to leave him again. “Goddamn it Ian, you’re not going anywhere. After everything…you’re just gonna fuck off and…and leave?”

His face looks emotionless, but Mickey can see that Ian is about to cry. “I just…it’s not forever, okay? Just until they work everything out and I’m not some needy little…god, Mick, do you really not get what happened? Do you really not see what I’ve put you and Mandy and _everybody_ through? Do you think I want that? I just want to be the person you actually used to enjoy, not pity.”

“I don’t fucking pity you,” Mickey says, and he loathes himself because he sounds so desperate. But he is desperate, because he’s seeing Ian in front of him and he’s seeing the Ian that stood in front of him that day he told Mickey he was leaving for the army, and he just _can’t_ go through all this again. “Shit, you can get better here. You can be that person here. You are that person. You’re not just…it’s not…fucking _hell_ , you have to tell her no. She’s not taking you away from your goddamn family.”

“It wouldn’t be a prison sentence or anything.” He’s trying to rationalize it, but Mickey’s seeing red. “I would still come hang out when it was good, but until they get it straightened out…you wouldn’t have to deal with the bad.”

“Because that’s just the fucking way life works?” Mickey challenges. “You just get the good, and not the bad? _You_ don’t have to deal with my fucking dad or whore wife or any of the other shit.”

“It’s not the same,” Ian insists in a whisper, but it is the same. He’s put Ian through so much, made him wait so long for Mickey to be ready, and now he needs Mickey to do the waiting and Mickey’s ready for that. They’re together now and that means Mickey doesn’t leave and it means Ian doesn’t fucking get to leave either.

Ian pulls his knees up to his chest, his arms with the needles stuck in circling around them. They’re only legs, but it feels like a wall sliding up between them. “No,” Mickey says, quietly, and then louder. “No, no, no fucking way, Ian.” He gets onto the bed, crawling closer to Ian, and pressing their foreheads together. “Stay. You gotta stay.”

Ian doesn’t look up, but his hands find Mickey’s. Mickey feels like he’s babbling now, but the one word he couldn’t give Ian before, when he could have stopped this all from happening, is all he can say now. “Stay. Just stay. I’ll do it, okay, I’ll make it work and I’ll fucking take care of it but you gotta stay. You can’t go with her. Stay. Please.”

He shuts himself up, because he doesn’t want to beg like a bitch, even though he probably already has. Ian squeezes his hands, and his voice is so soft when he speaks again that it feels more like a loud thought than a spoken sentence. “I’ll try.”

It isn’t what he wants to hear, because Mickey doesn’t like trying, he likes doing. But it’s still better than Ian leaving, so he grabs the back of Ian’s neck and pulls him close. They’ll figure this out. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, good ole fashioned Gallavich love. Which is good, because they've still got a lot to deal with in coming chapters...I'm a mean, mean writer and I already feel terrible for them, lol.


	9. Need You So Much Closer

**Chapter Nine: _Need You So Much Closer_**

It’s two days still before Ian checks himself out of the hospital. Even then, he has to sign out “Against Medical Advice”, as the papers he signs say in bold letters at the top. But Ian says he’s sick of sitting in the hospital bed and he just wants to go home, and Mickey can’t help but smile when he says that because home means Mickey’s.

Kev lets them borrow his truck, and Ian leans his head against the window the whole way. He’s on a couple new medicines now, and all he’s had to report so far is he feels “tired”. Mickey watches him more than the road most of the way, but he’s quiet, so Mickey turns up the radio and tries to relax about it.

He’s still more or less staring at Ian as they go through the front door, but even with all that staring, he doesn’t notice how Ian stops in the doorway of the kitchen until he nearly runs into him.

Monica Fucking Gallagher, sitting at his kitchen table, drinking out the same coffee mug he used the last morning he was home, and holding his goddamn kid. Mickey pushes past Ian and takes Yev from Monica without a word. It’s then that he notices she’s wearing a robe. “What the fuck?” he says, gesturing at her.

If Monica hears him, she makes no indication of it, and she stands and goes to Ian, hugging him. Ian eyes Mickey over Monica’s shoulder as he stiffly allows the hug. “How are you, baby?” Monica asks.

“Fine,” Ian mutters. “But why are you at Mickey’s house?”

“I invite her.” Mickey looks up from the baby to see Svetlana in a bathrobe as well, and his eyes go wide as it clicks in his head.

“No, no _fucking_ way,” Mickey says loudly, and Yev starts to fuss. Svetlana takes him then, cooing and shushing at him and glaring at Mickey.

“I get to decide who stays in room. _My_ room, you say. _My_ decision.”

“That – fucking – no! You don’t get to decide _her_.” He looks back at Ian, who looks nauseous as his head turns from Svetlana to his mother and back again.

“Then you don’t get to decide him,” Svetlana says coldly, jerking her head in Ian’s direction.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, it’s my house. You do know she’s his _mother_ right?”

Svetlana carries Yev to the living room and puts him in the bassinet before she speaks again. “Carrot Boy is good with baby. Good parts has to come from somewhere.”

Mickey waves his hand at Svetlana, beginning to get the same nauseous feeling Ian seems to have. “This is fucking sick. What happened to Nikka?”

Svetlana’s eyebrows raise. “She went to work,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “She like Monica too.” She pronounces her name like it starts with ‘moan’, and it makes Mickey’s stomach turn.

Mickey opens his mouth, closes it again, looks at Ian, and then finds his voice again. “I don’t even fucking want to know what you’re trying to say there, so…whatever.”

“I know you weren’t ready to stay with me, baby, but I can stay with _you_ and you still get to be with your guy, and it’ll be great.” Monica’s bouncing on the balls of her feet as she talks, and Ian looks at her as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“This isn’t _great_. This – this is – Jesus! How do you always find the one biggest way to just fucking complicate everything?” He brushes past Monica and goes to stand beside Mickey. Mickey looks him over and notices he’s shaking.

Monica looks hurt as she turns around. “I just came here to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot, and she was nice to me,” she admits quietly.

“You owe them no things,” Svetlana says sharply. “They are bitter, selfish little boys.” She keeps talking, but she slips into Russian, her voice raising.

“Will you just _shut the fuck up?_ ” Mickey asks loudly, rounding on Svetlana. “We have no idea what the fuck you’re saying! Just…fuck it, okay? You guys do whatever and lick whatever or touch whatever or whatever! Just leave us the fuck out of it, got it?”

He’s pushing Ian out of the room without getting an answer from them. They’re halfway down the hallway when Ian stops, turns toward him, and says with a look of complete seriousness, “Do you think Svetlana still has that strap on?”

He tries to keep a straight face, but whatever look it is Mickey gives back to him causes him to bust out laughing. Mickey shoves him into the bedroom. “You’re fucking disgusting,” Mickey responds, but as Ian grabs him and shoves him toward the bed, Mickey realizes he’s laughing too. They do that, for awhile, wrestle and laugh and make jokes about Mickey’s wife and Ian’s mother that no one else would find appropriate.

It isn’t until Ian’s laughter finally dies down and they lay there, legs tangled together, breathing heavy, that Mickey remembers there’s more than just this. “How you feeling?” He asks, for what is probably the millionth time in the past couple days.

Ian studies him for a moment. He’s leaning over Ian, who’s got his head on the mattress and his hand on Mickey’s chest. Mickey can almost understand why it is Ian wouldn’t want to leave this bed, on those bad days – it feels like they’re in a world of their own here. They don’t have to pretend to be anything else, and they don’t have to worry about anything or anyone else. “Good. I don’t think it’s been long enough to know, really.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the truth of the situation – Ian really isn’t sure _how_ he feels anymore. The medicine is different, he knows that much, but he still feels kind of fuzzy. He knows he feels happy, and maybe sad too, but the feelings seem more distant than he remembers his feelings being.

Mickey nods in response to what he says, his fingers ghosting down the hand Ian has on his chest and trailing over his arm. Ian studies Mickey’s face, and knows Mickey doesn’t realize the little gesture of closeness he’s making. It’s been happening more and more, Ian realizes – he can piece together these little gestures and almost see real displays of affection. And then he thinks about that tough boy who threatened to rip his tongue out if he kissed him, and it puts a fire in his chest to see that this is so different now.

They hear Terry’s bedroom door shut down the hall, and exchange a look that sends them into a fit of laughter again. The whole thing is so ridiculous – _Monica_ and Mickey’s _wife_ – but it’s the funniest Ian’s found anything in ages, and it makes him happy even though he knows it’s not supposed to.

He lifts up just enough to reach Mickey’s mouth and kisses him. Mickey reciprocates the advance, his hand gripping Ian’s shirt as they press closer together. Ian grips Mickey’s hips, pulling him over top of him, and Mickey grins against Ian’s lips.

 

* * *

 

 

This is the kind of life Mickey knows. His hands are under Ian’s shirt, sliding around and exploring and he just feels at home now. Mickey’s far more fluent in fucking than he’s ever been in Russian _or_ English.

“Mick,” Ian mutters when they break the kiss, and he sounds almost needy.

“Shut up and take your fucking clothes off,” Mickey responds, but he’s smiling.

It seems like ages since they’ve been this way. At least, it’s been long enough that Mickey’s forgotten just how fucking _slow_ Gallagher is when he takes his clothes off. It took all of a flash of a second for Mickey to rip his own shirt off, and Ian’s still unbuttoning his damn plaid shirt.

“Come the fuck on, Gallagher,” Mickey snaps impatiently, and he reaches for Ian’s waist.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time, it doesn’t occur to Ian that he’s supposed to stop Mickey until it’s almost too late. But as his hands fly to his waistband, he finds Mickey’s hand is already gone.

When his eyes find Mickey’s again, he sees a flash of something in Mickey’s eyes – anger? “What’s wrong?”

Mickey seems further away now, but his knees are still on either side of Ian’s so maybe they’re not any further apart. But he seems to be sitting up straighter, and Ian notices his left hand groping around the bed, looking for his discarded shirt. “Nothing, man,” Mickey says, his voice cracking.

Ian scoots back, so he’s sitting up a little straighter, and tries to make eye contact with Mickey. “No, what happened?”

Mickey looks up at him, and Ian doesn’t like the look in his eyes. His left hand leaves the mattress and comes back toward Ian’s jeans, but this time the look on his face isn’t hazy with lust. It’s sharp and it’s almost mean, like he’s challenging Ian.

Ian catches his hand before he gets to the button, because of course Mickey can’t take his pants off. His legs are still raw and chopped up and he can’t let Mickey see. “Let me suck you off,” Ian suggests, his voice light.

Mickey’s eyebrows inch together over his eyes and he pulls his hand away. “Fuck you,” he says, and this time his knees disappear from beside Ian’s. He sits back on the mattress, further away from Ian.

He feels nervous now, but he doesn’t know why. Surely Mickey doesn’t know anything…how could he? “What the fuck, Mick?”

Mickey is rubbing his lip with his thumb and glaring at Ian almost as if he’d just hit him. “Forget it, alright?” He grabs his shirt with his free hand. “Just forget it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey never graduated high school. Hell, he never even made it through freshman year. But if there’s one thing he’s not interested in, it’s feeling like he’s stupid. And he feels pretty fucking stupid right now, so he takes his time pulling his shirt back over his head, as if the fabric blocking his face somehow makes this whole situation less real.

He feels stupid because he actually fucking forgot about Ian’s little secret for a minute. He feels stupid because he almost threw his secret into the middle of all of this, and he feels even more stupid because he didn’t just take the opportunity to bring it out and get it over with. He feels stupid and dumb because he doesn’t have a clue how to help Ian with this and so he hides from it and pretends he doesn’t know and acts like it’s not fucking weird for Ian to want his pants on, and he feels like an idiot because he actually is turning down a blowjob because of this shit.

And then he hears a giggle from down the hall, and he feels his blood pressure rise, because now he’s the fucking idiot who isn’t able to have sex with his boyfriend the way he wants to, and meanwhile his fucking Russian fucking whore of a goddamn wife is sleeping with two fucking women….

“Fuck this,” Mickey says, and he stands up.

“Mick –“

“Shut the fuck up and get over here,” Mickey says, and he’s undoing his belt then. He fucking hates himself, but it’s hardly the first time.

“What are you doing?” Ian asks him, quietly, using the same tone of voice Mickey uses when he thinks Ian’s doing something kind of crazy.

“I said shut the fuck up,” Mickey says, and he grips the corners of his dresser, keeping his eyes on the shit on top of the dresser, making very sure he doesn’t turn around. “I’m sick of the foreplay shit. Let’s go.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You forget how this works, Gallagher? Drop your fucking pants and let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ian hesitates, because his legs are raw and in all sorts of states of healing, and surely Mickey will feel it or turn or something, but _Jesus_ he’s missed Mickey and this could actually work…

And so Ian does what they’ve always done, and as his lips trail over Mickey’s ear and he hears the grunt escape from Mickey’s lips that he’s missed so much, he whispers “thank you”, and he doesn’t even know if Mickey hears him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I realize that was maybe the most depressing sex scene in all the world...but we're on a journey here, people, we're on a journey! Also, I am oddly kind of proud of Svetonica, I guess you could call it. I have this story planned out till the end, all the major events decided...but those little scenes like that one get fleshed out as they get written, and it just kinda came to me. Don't worry - it's really not a major part of the story. :P 
> 
> As always, thank you all for all your kind words and support of my story - it means the world to me! The next chapter might take a couple days to get up, because I'm reeeeally trying to get it perfect...it's a BIIIIG chapter, super important stuff happens!


	10. Break You Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...that canonical rape discussion the tags warn you about...well, this is where it starts.

**Chapter Ten: _Break You Hard_**

Ian wakes up, and he feels angry.

He pushes his way out of the covers and slides out from under Mickey’s arm, who’s still lying there fast asleep. As he slips on his pants and pulls a shirt over his head, he tries to rack his brain and locate the source of his anger. But he’s got nothing.

Yet his hands are shaking and his veins are standing up in his arms and his jaw feels tight and he’s just so mad he feels like he’s boiling underneath the surface of his own skin. It’s as he’s walking down the hallway that he realizes this is the first time he remembers being angry since this whole thing started. Truly and properly angry.

Maybe it’s supposed to be a good thing, some sign these meds they’ve now adjusted for the third time are doing the right thing, but Ian’s not exactly sure anger was an emotion he really missed. He ducks into the bathroom, shutting the door, and it takes just a second for him to fish the little piece of broken mirror glass out of its spot. The first time he dislodged the glass from the spiderweb of cracks on the mirror, it felt like it took ages. He was sure Mickey would come looking for him, and maybe he even hoped he would so he wouldn’t go through with it. But Mickey had fallen asleep and Ian had all the time in the world to make mistakes.

Now, he’s got the routine down, and his nail slides into the mirror in the exact perfect spot and pulls the shard loose in just a moment. As he pulls down his pants, he realizes he’s not even sure _why_ he’s doing this, but as the glass slides across his inner thigh, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The anger seems to get under control the harder he pushes. But as the blood trickles down his leg and he hurries to grab some toilet paper and soak it up before it hits the floor, he begins to feel weak.

He had promised himself, he really had. He had told himself he’d let the medicine do its job, and he wouldn’t do _this_ anymore. If he felt like doing _this_ , he’d tell that fucking therapist lady the meds weren’t working and he’d keep saying it until he found some way to live his life that didn’t involve this kind of thing.

But then he found himself just like this, sitting on the edge of the tub and sliding the glass over his legs, and maybe he knew why and maybe he didn’t, but it was like he didn’t even stop to think about whether this was rational anymore. It was just how he dealt, now.

The knock at the door is fast and impatient, and as Ian scrambles to pull his pants up, he begins to worry this isn’t the first time the door’s been knocked on since he got in there. “Just a minute,” he calls, trying to sound cheery.

He lets the water run, and cleans off the mirror shard as best he can with shaking hands, before sliding it back into position and pulling the door open with a smile. “Sorry, I was –“ but he stops apologizing, because Monica’s standing there, and he isn’t sorry to Monica for anything. The anger floods back as he looks at her, stronger than before.

“Hi, baby. Can I come in?” She glances down the hall, and Ian follows her gaze, but sees no one.

“Seriously?” She nods, and Ian really doubts it makes any sense, but he moves aside and lets her into the bathroom. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but isn’t it just so perfectly Monica to follow him into the bathroom to _talk_? “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, but he closes the door and leans against it and decides to listen anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

“Did they fucking move in there or something?” Mandy slams the fridge shut as she says it, and it’s the first time Mickey even notices she’s joined him in the kitchen.

He puts down the paper he wasn’t really reading and grabs his orange juice, staring at her over it. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Your boyfriend and his fucking mother. They’ve been in the bathroom for _an hour now!_ ” She yells the last part, craning her neck to project her voice down the hallway.

This is news to Mickey, though it at least explains where the fuck Ian went. He heard him leave that morning, though he pretended to still be asleep. He had assumed Ian was going for a run, but this was a little more…confusing…than that.

Mickey doesn’t respond, just watches Mandy throw some more shit around in the kitchen, and then she rounds on him, holding a fork. “You know, we’re not running a bed and fucking breakfast around here. It’s our house and I don’t care if you and your wife want to invite half a damn circus here, but I should be able to get in the damn bathroom when I want to.”

“Shit, Mandy, I get it, okay?” Mickey snaps, because he’s really not interested in listening to Mandy bitch about something he wanted less than she did. “Fuck, it’s not my fault. I didn’t ask her to move in here.”

“Yeah, but you sure as hell didn’t kick her out, either.” She turns around, and jams the fork angrily into the jar of peanut butter, and Mickey considers her for a moment.

“This your fucking pregnancy hormones of whatever? Christ knows Svetlana was a straight up bitch with hers. Little guy pushing on your bladder?”

Mandy spins around, and if looks could kill, Mickey Milkovich would be six feet under right now. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

 

* * *

 

 

For someone who followed him into the bathroom so they could have a ‘chat’, Monica doesn’t say much. She stares at Ian a lot, and she tells him she’s sorry if the Svetlana thing is weird, but he laughs because the _if_ part of that statement just seems so ridiculous.

She tells him she’s looking for a job, and that she might find an apartment soon. She says Fiona let her take Carl and Debbie out for lunch yesterday, and maybe they only went to the Alibi so Kev could keep an eye on them the whole time, but it’s a start, isn’t it?

But mostly, she tells him nothing at all and they just stare at each other, as if she’s waiting for him to say something to her. So finally, because he can’t take silence anymore, he starts to talk. “Why did you ever stop taking your meds?”

She seems surprised by the question, and the look that crosses her face is one of self-defense, but then she sighs, and looks at Ian with something that looks an awful like pity. “It…it’s hard to explain. But you know how much you love Liam, and Carl, and Debbie?” Ian nods, though it shouldn’t really be a question. “Well so did I, you know? But I would take my meds and I’d pick Liam up and it’d feel no different than picking up a baby doll. I knew I was supposed to love him and I knew that I did, but I couldn’t _feel_ me loving him anymore, you know? Or any of you. Everything was so far away. Without the meds, I could feel it again.”

Ian swallows hard, because he knows this feeling, and it isn’t comforting to know that a life on meds might well mean a life of this forever. The psychiatrists all try to tell him that’s not normal, that good meds don’t make you feel that way, but he’s yet to feel certain of that.

“Why’d you always leave us, if you loved us so much?” It’s such a bold question Ian can’t even believe he asked it, but the anger he feels is desperate to act itself out, to hurt someone, and he knows this question hurts. It hurts _him_ , and he wants to take it back. But he’s got nothing to lose anymore.

Monica stands up, and she walks up to him and touches his face, and although he turns his head, he doesn’t move far enough to keep her from doing it. “I only ever left _because_ I loved you guys, baby,” she says softly, her fingers tickling at his hair line.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean? Kids need their mother, Monica. You destroy them when you leave.” _You destroy me too_ , Ian thinks but doesn’t allow himself to say.

“But I’m not a mother to you guys like that…like _this_ ,” she corrects herself, and Ian can count on one hand the number of times Monica’s ever admitted to having a problem, so it surprises him. Usually it’s just she _had_ a problem, it’s over now, so everyone leave it alone. “Baby, I only wanted you guys to be happy. Fiona takes so much better care of all of you. And I’m just a mess and I hurt you all and it’s better this way.”

Ian moves now, sliding past her. He grips the edges of the sink, looking down at the drain. He thinks of Mickey, and the number of times he’s seen that look of pain in Mickey’s eyes when he says he won’t get out of bed. The number of times Mickey watches him when he’s up, flying around the house, like he’s never seen something so tragic. The number of bruises he kissed that night, after the Alibi, when they cleaned the blood off each other and Mickey wouldn’t talk, because all he thought about was how he’d come out to his father because Ian refused to hide anymore. “So is that why you wanted me to stay with you? Because I should leave too, to help everyone?”

“Baby, you’re not me.”

“Of course I fucking am,” Ian spits, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the sink tightens. “Always have been.” He laughs, though he doesn’t know what’s funny. “And now I’m sick, just like you, and it’s never gonna go away.”

 

* * *

  

“I know you’re a hell of a lot better at math than to be this fucking stupid, asshole,” Mandy snaps. “The last time Monica came around, and you were in juvie, did you even fucking know Svetlana yet? You wanna tell me how you met her, fucked her, and had her pop out your kid and you still think _I’d_ be pregnant with that kid she was going on about?”

Mickey glares at her, pushing his plate away because he’s not hungry anymore. “Well where is it, then?” He doesn’t exactly pay a lot of attention to Mandy’s life on a regular basis, but he’s pretty sure he would have noticed a baby running around at some point.

“Nowhere,” Mandy says with a shrug. “Never fucking had the thing, okay? Got rid of it.”

Mickey considers the answer. “Was it Gallagher’s?”

Mandy stares at him. “I told you a long time ago, your precious boyfriend and I never fucked, okay?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean Ian. The other one.”

Mandy looks away. “No. Jesus, Mick, why the fuck do you care?”

“I don’t. But if someone like her is gonna know about it, I think I should know too.”

Mandy whips her head back in his direction, her jaw set in defiance. “Well now you know, don’t you? So drop it.” She turns around, but the look in her eyes unnerves Mickey. He stands up, crossing the kitchen.

“Who’s baby was it?”

“She already told you, didn’t she? Some random guy, don’t remember his name.”

“Yeah fucking right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She won’t turn around, won’t look at him, but he hears her voice shake.

“I am talking to the same girl who _ran over a bitch_ for getting with her guy, right? The same girl who came back to a fucking Goliath ass beater over and over again? Mandy, you don’t fuck random guys. You fucking awful, shitty guys, but not random ones whose names you don’t even remember.”

She whirls around, and there’s a tear on her cheek, and her fists are balled at her sides. “Shut the fuck up, Mickey.”

“Whose kid was it?” Mickey repeats, not backing down.

“Why the fuck do you care?” She’s yelling at him through gritted teeth.

“’Cause someone needs his ass beat for thinking he’s gonna get away with this shit without me knowing about it. I mean, shit, did he even help pay for it?”

“Ian helped, okay? We had a fundraiser and it’s none of your damn business whose it was.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, because this bit about Ian helping is news to him. “You had a fundraiser?” He repeats.

“Yeah. See, Ian’s nice like that. Once upon a time, I did date a nice boy, Mickey. Not just shitty ones. But then my brother decided _he_ wanted to sleep with my boyfriend, so you’ll have to excuse the fact I haven’t found a replacement. South Side’s not exactly crawling with Prince Charmings these days.”

Mickey’s about to respond, but he catches on. “You’re not fucking playing me, Mandy. Tell me whose kid it is.”

“ _Was._ And now it’s nothing, so drop it.”

“Fucking tell me, or I’ll beat every guy’s ass you ever met. It’s a long list, but I got the fucking time.”

Mandy laughs. “You’re not gonna do anything, even if you did know.”

“The fuck I won’t.”

She laughs again, and it pisses Mickey off. “No you fucking wouldn’t Mickey, so drop it. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Damn it, Mandy, who the hell are you trying to protect here? Just tell me the goddamn name, if it’s so fucking meaningless to you. Why’s it matter to you if I kick his ass?” Mandy laughs, again, and Mickey can’t take it anymore. “You stop fucking laughing or you tell me what’s so funny.”

“My big brother? My protector? Going to defend my honor? You wouldn’t touch him,” she says, her jaw firm but the tears fresh on her cheeks. “You are such a pussy with him, you’d never touch him.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Baby, I’m sorry,” Monica whispers, and her arms slide around Ian’s back and lock together around his stomach. He feels like he’s going to cry, but the tears in his eyes are hot and full of rage and he won’t let them fall, because he’s too mad at everyone and everything. “If I could do anything to take this away, I would. I never wanted any of you to be like this.”

He knows it isn’t Monica’s fault, but it still feels like her fault, and he wants to shove her away and hurt her because he’s hurting and she’s made him this way, hasn’t she? He’s poison to the world now, just like her, and he’s blown his future, just like her, and he has no clue how to go on and most days he just doesn’t want to go on…just like her.

He wants to speak, to tell her that he hates himself and he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to breathe again because it’s all too much, and he wants to know how he’s supposed to keep himself whole but not hurt anyone anymore, but there’s loud footsteps outside the door and the door’s thrown open before he can even speak.

“Did you fucking know?”

Ian’s never seen Mickey look like this before. It’s like Monica’s vanished, now that Ian’s standing and facing the door, and all he sees is Mickey. Mickey who looks so… _pained_. He’s whiter than usual and he seems seven feet tall in the doorway. Ian feels afraid now, but why?

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb, Gallagher. Did you fucking know?”

Ian looks over Mickey’s shoulder then, and he sees Mandy standing just behind him, her cheeks wet and her hands floating behind Mickey’s back, like she wants to grab him and pull him away but can’t get the courage. She catches Ian’s eye and just shakes her head, letting her hands fall to her sides.

It’s felt like Ian was drowning, for weeks now. When he cuts, he feels almost like he’s breaking the surface, catching a glimpse of air, and plunging back down. But as he sees the look in Mickey’s eye, he feels a hand clamp over him and hold him down in the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter hurts me. But have faith, my loves! Thank you all again for your replies and kudos and bookmarks and tumblr likes and reblogs and just...ahhhhh. It means so much to me, and I hope you all continue to enjoy!


	11. Sins of the Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More discussion of rapes that occurred in canon.

**Chapter Eleven: _Sins of the Father_**

Mickey can’t hear much over his own heartbeat, and everything he looks at is stained red with rage. He remembers grabbing Ian, and he remembers pulling him into their – _his_ – bedroom, but now they’re staring at each other and Mandy’s still standing in the doorway but he barely sees Ian.

“Did you fucking know it was his?” He asks again, loud. He’s trying to have patience, really he is, but Ian won’t answer him and this is too important to play games.

“Just tell me what you’re talking about, Mick, please?”

“Mickey, leave him alone,” Mandy says, finally finding her voice.

“You shut your damn mouth, Mandy,” Mickey shouts, and he finger is shaking as it jabs in her direction. “Did you know…fucking hell, Ian…did she tell you who the d-dad was?” He stumbles over the word, and one look at Ian gives him the answer he needs. “Fucking hell, _what the fuck_?” He’s yelling louder now, and he’s advancing on Ian, and…

 

* * *

 

“Fucking stop, Mickey!” Mandy figures out what he’s doing, but the realization doesn’t strike Ian until Mickey’s fist does. The air leaves his lungs, and he’s doubled over around Mickey’s fist.

“Shit,” he groans out, and Mickey shoves him. He’s on the floor now, clutching his stomach and staring up at Mickey.

The world is falling apart, near as Ian can tell. His thoughts are barely making sense now and he’s hurting and Mickey is too but this time it’s his fault and this isn’t going to get better. It’s all over now and it isn’t getting better.

“How the fuck do you not tell me?” Mickey yells at him, but Ian can’t even look at him anymore. He had never imagined this. It’d been all about helping Mandy, taking care of it and keeping her secret, and somehow he’d let himself forget that Mickey didn’t know.

“ _You stupid fuck._ ” Svetlana is there now, and Ian doesn’t know if she’s been standing there or if she just appeared, but she shoves her way past Mandy into the room and stands between Mickey and Ian. Ian can almost see up her robe at his angle from the floor. “You wake up baby with your fucking yelling.”

 

* * *

 

 

The pressure in Mickey’s head feels like it’s going to blow his skull wide open. She’s standing there, her robe barely closed, sitting crooked across her chest, and he’s overwhelmed. She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even have a kid. Mandy shouldn’t have had a kid. It’s all lining up in his head, now, all this misery is adding up in his head and it’s swirling around and he’s practically dizzy with it all. His fucking _kid…_ Mandy’s fucking kid…Ian on the fucking floor coughing and acting like a bitch…

The air is thick with Terry Milkovich’s sins, and Mickey can’t breathe it anymore.

“Where the fuck are you going?” He hears the words, but he doesn’t even know who’s saying it, or maybe they’re all saying it, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s walking now, but he’s not telling his body to move. But it’s getting him away from here, and that’s all he fucking needs to know.

 

* * *

 

 

Svetlana storms off, shouting in Russian, the words “small dick” and “asshole fucker” making it through in English every few words. Mandy lingers at the doorway, and Ian looks up at her, still clutching his stomach and seeing stars.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“Forget it,” he says, trying to be the best friend he’s supposed to be. It isn’t Mandy’s fault. It’s her dad’s fault, it’s Mickey’s fault – it’s not Mandy’s fault. “Just…forget it, okay? He’ll cool down, alright? It’s…it’s not exactly fun news to learn, you know?”

“Not exactly fun news to _live_ , but it’s not like he fucking cares,” Mandy says, and then she’s gone.

Ian doesn’t really feel like he can stand up, so he scoots his way over to the wall, and he leans against it, clutching his stomach and trying to catch his breath.

“Oh, baby.”

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, but now Monica’s standing over him.

“Go fuck yourself,” he says, and it’s a little hard to talk without sounding like he’s wheezing.

“Ian, honey –“

“No, I mean it. Go fuck yourself. You just had to say something, didn’t you?”

Monica’s mouth is open, and that anger Ian felt before is roaring back with a vengeance. “What are you talking about?”

“Mickey never would have known anything about Terry and the baby if you would’ve kept your mouth shut. This isn’t your fucking life, Monica. Just stay the fuck out of it.”

“She almost got you killed, and it wasn’t your fault…”

“Fuck off!” Ian yells, kicking his leg out at her, knowing he won’t make contact. “You don’t know anything about it. You show up for five seconds and think that makes you a mother, and it doesn’t. Leave me the hell alone.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey doesn’t want to come back to the house, but he’s circled the block four times and he can’t come up with any other solution, so he takes a deep breath and barges through the door.

He’s only a little surprised when he realizes no one’s in the living room, or the kitchen. But of course, fucking Ian’s in his bedroom.

“Mick –“

“Don’t fucking talk,” Mickey grounds out, and he’s pulling the drawer open without even looking behind him. He’s found this whole thing easier to manage if he just doesn’t think much. Just stay focused on what he’s doing and not let his mind run wild.

“What are you -?”

But Mickey answers his question by turning around and pointing the gun at him. He squints one eye, staring down the barrel. He doesn’t mean anything by it – the safety’s still on and the gun’s not even loaded yet – but he sees Ian tense anyway. “I said don’t fucking talk.”

And just like that, he’s gone again.

He’s in Kev’s truck, sitting outside the prison, when he realizes it’s a pretty stupid fucking idea to try to shoot his father.

He’s already seen four guards in the first ten minutes he’s sat out here, and while he doesn’t think too highly of cops, he’s pretty sure one of them will probably notice the gun in the waistband of his jeans. And even if he’s lucky in that respect, _someone_ is bound to hear one of the shots, at least, when he empties the whole damn clip into Terry Milkovich’s fucking ass.

So he decides killing Terry can wait. If he’s lucky, his dad will get cut for overcrowding sooner rather than later. Because whatever day his release comes, Terry Milkovich will not live 24 hours as a free man.

So he buys a couple six packs and goes to the abandoned house he found back when he first met Svetlana, and he practices shooting. He pretends the bottles are Terry, and he imagines how happy he’ll feel when he knows the fucker is dead.

The morning Terry found him and Ian isn’t a morning he lets himself think about often. But it’s all his mind can see today, between the images of his fat fuck of a father forcing his way onto Mandy, and as he shatters the glass with his bullets, the tears fill his eyes till he can’t see where he’s shooting and he drops the gun.

It’s not something he makes some big fucking deal out of, but he never wanted to have sex with Svetlana. He did it because he was afraid if he didn’t, he’d die. And even more so, he was afraid if he didn’t, Ian would die, and it’d be his pathetic fault. So he did what he was supposed to do to survive and then he had to marry the bitch and she was living in his house and it didn’t feel like it mattered anymore what he’d told Ian at the christening, because he’d never really be free. He was chained to the life he’d been too scared to stop from happening.

_You’re such a pussy with him. You let him control you. Jesus, Mickey, how many times have you hurt Ian, just so dear daddy wouldn’t be mad? And you think I could have depended on you to do something about it?_ Of course he was fucking afraid of his father, Mandy was too. She had the privilege of running off to their aunt’s house whenever he went off, but Mickey wasn’t so lucky, because their aunt was a cunt who said he was going to be just like Terry so why would she bother? He was the one who was always there with him, the one who sported the bruises and took the punches so Mandy wouldn’t have to. He put up with enough shit from Terry his whole life, so fucking sue him for not wanting to complicate it further with his little feelings about Gallagher.

 

* * *

 

 

Ian’s ass has fallen asleep, and it’s dark in the room now, because it’s so late, but he still hasn’t gotten up from his spot on the floor. He sits there and he loathes himself, but he doesn’t get up.

Maybe he’ll just die here. It seems preferable, at this moment. But he closes his eyes, hoping to fall asleep and not wake up, and he’s sees the look in Mickey’s eyes behind the barrel of the gun, and his eyes fly open.

He’s got work soon, and he isn’t going to go, but then he hears the door open, and Mickey’s there, standing in the doorway staring at him.

“It’s my fucking house,” Mickey says simply, looking away and addressing the bed instead.

“I know,” Ian says softly, which seems like such a dumb thing to bother saying.

The gun isn’t anywhere in sight, and Mickey seems calmer now, but even from here Ian can smell the alcohol on his breath. “You got work, don’t you?”

For one wild, hopeful moment, Ian thinks things are over. He thinks Mickey’s there to drive him to work, like normal, and he’s going to sit there with him like normal and slowly, they’ll move on from this and go back to normal. So he says ‘yeah’, and he stands up, and he walks toward Mickey with a smile on his face…and Mickey moves away.

“I think you should go back to your house in the morning then, when you get off work.” Mickey won’t look anywhere near him now, instead speaking in the direction of the door frame.

“Why?” Ian says automatically.

Mickey looks at him now, his jaw muscles twitching. “You fucking kidding me? ‘Why’? ‘ _Why_ ’? Fucking seriously, you’re gonna play dumb?”

Ian’s mouth falls open as he stumbles over his words. “No…n-no, I just…I thought…Mick, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Mickey’s shaking his head, biting his lip. “Don’t you say shit you don’t mean. You aren’t sorry. You think you did the right thing, you’re just sorry I found out.”

Ian wants to object, but Mickey’s right. He’d lie for Mandy a hundred times over, because he really does believe it was her secret to tell or keep and no matter how much Mickey means to him, it wouldn’t have been fair for him to tell. “Mandy’s my best friend, she asked…what was I supposed to do?”

He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Mickey’s look darkens further as he stares at Ian. “You were supposed to be honest,” he grounds out. “It’s _my_ fucking family, Ian. You didn’t have any right to decide to keep this from me.”

He can feel how broken Mickey is, standing in front of him like this. He knows he’s messed up and he wants to run, because that’s what Ian does when he screws things up, but he’s tired of running. Even more than that, he’s tired of being chased. He knows Mickey’s mad, and he should be, but surely they’ll get through this, right?

“Mick,” he says softly, and he steps closer, because Mickey’s the kind of guy that pushes you away when he needs you the most, and if you’re gonna help him you’ve got to just beat down the damn door. “I don’t want…please, let’s just talk about this. I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

But Mickey’s hands are up and he presses himself against the wall. “What did I say?” he demands, glaring. “Are you seriously not fucking getting this? You need to leave.” Ian wants to move now, he wishes he could leave, but his feet seem frozen to the spot. “Just get the fuck out, Ian,” Mickey says, with a sigh. “I just…I need my own space for a little bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Ian says back, and he’s walking toward the door without looking back. But it isn’t okay. He wants to look back, to see Mickey one more time because now he’s not sure he will be seeing him again, but he’s too afraid Mickey won’t be looking at him and he’s not sure he can take that.

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey watches Ian leave through blurry eyes, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from asking him to stop. He knows for sure now, being mad at Ian isn’t like being mad at anyone else – because even though he hates Ian Gallagher right now, he hates the idea of being without him for the night. And if anything, that just makes him hate Ian more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yikes! This chapter was toorrrture to write, and the torture that's coming...ugh, my poor boys! But they need to work through this, and they're not exactly great at that.


	12. I'm Killing Time, Time's Killing You

**Chapter Twelve: _I’m Killing Time, Time’s Killing You_**

_“Oh wow, fuck you. Seriously, you’re not going to answer the damn phone? You’re such a pussy, Gallgher. Fuck you.”_

 

Ian remembers the first time he read his medical bills. He’d gone home to the Gallaghers for dinner, with Mickey in tow, and he’d seen them sitting on top of the little pile of mail Fiona collected for him. And he’d actually laughed, because how could any place think he had that kind of money? But Mickey had seen the way his smile faltered, because he would always have bills now, for therapists and medicine and whatever else, and it scared him.

“We’ll figure it out,” Mickey said, stealing the bill from him. “Maybe gotta scam a couple more old guys, but whatever. I could use a new watch anyway.”

As Ian dances that night, he works a little harder than he has in months. He’s rewarded handsomely for the extra effort, and it makes him something akin to happy. He can’t expect Mickey to help him figure out the bills now, so he’ll make the money himself.

 

_“You do get that you wouldn’t even be fucking working there if you would’ve told the truth, right? Fuck…he would’ve been dead before I ever had to marry anybody. If you would’ve just…fucking Christ, you asshole.”_

 

Ian gets called to the VIP room that night, because there’s a client there that says he’s willing to pay extra for him. It’s not the first time this has happened, but it’s the first time it’s happened that Mickey hasn’t been there, and as Ian ducks behind the curtain, he can’t help but find a slight satisfaction in picturing how mad Mickey would be if he knew.

He’s got goosebumps on his arms, and this rich guy – salt and pepper hair, awkward patches of stubble on his neck – he puts his lips on the inside of Ian’s arm. He wants to push him away, but he’s getting seventy-five dollars a dance and what does it matter to anyone else anymore anyway?

 

_“Look, I just wanted you to know that if you forgot something you can come get it, okay? I’m going to bed so don’t wake me up slamming shit or whatever, but if you need something – door’s unlocked. So…yeah.”_

 

His name is Andrew, he tells Ian, who still insists on being called Curtis. As Ian turns and slides down the chair in front of him, the man’s hand grips his chest. He tips his head back, and there’s a pill on his tongue now.

This could have been any day, Ian thinks as more money finds its way into the waistband of his shorts. This could have been any day before Mickey showed up at the stupid club, telling him to come home. _Bet he wishes he’d never bothered now_.

But this was how it used to be, back when he was a boy with a different name who had no family and no one to love. He’d make money and do drugs and go home alone and he liked it that way. He could like it again.

 

_“Shit, why the fuck do you have a phone if you never answer it? Forget it. I’m going to bed.”_

 

It gets later, and the hours that stand between Ian and the reality of his life turn small. He doesn’t want to go back to the Gallagher house, to lay in that bed and not have Mickey beneath him on the floor. He doesn’t want to know his life without Mickey now, and he hates Mickey for it.

He’s in the back, counting his money, and he thinks about calling Mickey. He wants to tell him he’s sorry, that he’ll do better next time. Because as he looks at himself in the mirror, he sees a little boy who’s got his love shot in the leg and the ass and now the heart, apparently, and he just wants to make it better this time.

But he tries to find the words and none come to him. He wants to tell Mickey he’s sorry, but at the same time, he wants Mickey to apologize. His stomach still hurts where Mickey hit him, and why the fuck should he have to apologize for what he did if Mickey won’t apologize for that? This isn’t Ian’s fault, this is the same garbage Mickey always puts him through – he doesn’t deal, he explodes, and leaves Ian to pick up the pieces. And Ian’s too broken himself to do the clean up this time.

So instead of calling, he fixes his hair and puts on more chapstick, and he goes back out on the floor and he dances more. And he pretends Mickey never asked him to come home, because as crazy as it sounds, things were better then.

 

_“Could you just…fucking Christ, Mandy, I’m_ asking now _, shit. Look, Ian, could you at least just fucking text me back or some shit, let me know you’re not dead somewhere or something?”_

 

The guy from before is waiting for Ian when he leaves the club that night. He’s parked right out front, leaned against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette.

Ian pulls the sleeves of Mickey’s sweatshirt over his hands, wishing he’d bothered to grab his own before he left the house. But he hadn’t, so all he had was this stupid thing he’d left in his locker. It smelled like cigarettes and barbeque sauce and there was a hole in the cuff of the right arm. Mickey probably didn’t even know he had it, but he’d let him borrow it one night when the bipolar meds were making him shake. He hadn’t even been cold, just shaky, but Mickey didn’t usually do that kind of thoughtful stuff, so Ian went along with it.

The guy holds his car door open for Ian, and he knows he shouldn’t get in, but the leather seats are heated and it feels nice. He asks where Ian wants to go, but Ian is sleepy and looped on the pills he’s had, so he doesn’t really care.

He reaches over and takes the cigarette from the guy’s mouth, and he blows smoke rings and he turns up the radio.

 

_“Your shift ended twenty minutes ago, asshole. Haven’t you caused enough shit? Just answer my fucking call.”_

 

Ian considers the fact that he might be on his way to getting murdered as they make their way across the city. But the guy’s telling him about his stupid office job and how his boss is a homophobe and about how he almost killed himself in high school because the quarterback of the football team wasn’t into him, and Ian thinks you don’t usually share this kind of stuff with the guy you’re going to murder.

“That’s fucked up,” he says in response. He’s tried to listen, but that guy they just passed was wearing a coat like Mickey’s and he got distracted. But his response is enough to satisfy the man, who reaches over and gives his thigh a squeeze. It’s always the response old guys who come to the club want to hear – their lives are always fucked up.

He realizes he never told the guy where he lives, and as he turns the blinker on to merge left, Ian wonders where they’re going.

 

_“You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you for lying, fuck you for being a bitch. You really think I deserved this? You think I should have to be up all night waiting for your ass? Fuck you. Just…don’t even bother calling. I meant what I said earlier. Leave me the fuck alone.”_

 

He rolls down the window, sticking his arm out and letting his hand dance in the wind. The guy’s still talking, but Ian’s gotten bored of his problems.

He looks up at the sky and wonders when the sun is going to rise. The buildings here are tall, and he probably won’t be able to see it. But still…the colors are beautiful and it counts for something.

Hadn’t that been Mickey’s explanation, when he’d found that picture on his phone? Ian smiles, his hand blowing back in the wind, as he remembers the way Mickey’s ears got red when Ian showed him what he’d found.

“Fuck off.”

“No, really, where is this from?”

“The fucking hospital, or whatever, I don’t even know. It’s nothing. I couldn’t sleep and you were out cold and I just thought you’d think it counted for something or some shit, I don’t know. It’s a picture. Now get on your knees, bitch.”

“Pull over,” Ian croaks, his hand clutching the edge of the window. His knuckles are white and the hairs on his arm are standing on end. The car is still rolling to a stop as he leans out the window, the contents of his stomach splattering to the sidewalk.

 

_“That’s another thing. Yeah, it’s me again. I’m so sick of you lying and shit all the time. I’m not fucking stupid, Ian. You think I don’t know, and I do.”_

 

When Mickey would hold him, after he threw up, he’d feel safe and small and needy and he’d lean into it. But now this guy’s undone his seatbelt and his arms are around Ian’s shoulders while he lays out the window, and he feels hot and sweaty and he wants to cry because this isn’t right.

His fingers find the handle, and he opens the door, falling out of the car without any of the grace and dignity he wants to have. He grips the edge of the door, now swung wide open over the sidewalk, and he wishes Mickey was here. But then he thinks of how Mickey would probably just laugh at him, or leave him there to be miserable, because Mickey’s a right dick when he’s mad.

His mind turns instead to Lip, and the advice he gave him the day he told Lip that Mickey was marrying the Russian. To go out to a gay bar and get himself what he wants, to stop waiting around for a Milkovich who doesn’t care enough to try anymore.

 

_“If you don’t call me back in the next five fucking minutes, I’m done. You won’t hear from me again. I’m not your fucking parent, I’m not doing this shit anymore. So…bye, I guess, if you’re too much of a bitch to face me.”_

 

Ian would’ve pegged the guy for a bottom, but he pushes Ian’s face down on the backseat and tosses Mickey’s sweatshirt onto the floorboards. He hears a thud as it hits the ground, and he glances over to see his phone sticking out of the pocket. The screen’s lit up, the little phone icon dancing on the screen.

Mickey’s calling.

Ian’s breath catches, and for a brief second, he considers pushing the old guy off him and grabbing the phone and the sweatshirt and the shorts and forgetting his shoes and running away.

But then he imagines all the nasty things Mickey’s thought up to say to him, and he decides he can wait to be insulted.

 

_“Yeah, Ian, it’s me again. Look…fuck, okay? Just – Mandy’s going nuts, says she’s texted you fifteen times and you won’t answer so I’m starting to think you’re not just avoiding me because you’re a pussy. Will you please just let someone know you’re fucking alive? I…shit, Ian. I get I’m being an asshole, okay? But you don’t need to do this. Mandy’s worried about you…hell, I’m worried about you. Fucking come home, okay? Come back and you don’t have to talk to me but you can’t just disappear.”_

 

Ian closes his eyes as the pressure fills him, and a tear he didn’t know he was going to cry slips down his nose and onto the leather seat.

He imagines, as the breath behind him quickens and falls into a steady, thumping pace, why he didn’t just let Mickey kill him, way back when, when he hunted him down for ‘raping’ Mandy. He’d make a better victim to Mickey then he’d ever make a boyfriend. Least if Mickey was in prison and Ian was six feet underground, Terry Milkovich couldn’t hurt them anymore.

 

_“I know your family hasn’t heard from you, either. Fuck, Ian, what are you doing? I didn’t mean for this…shit. Fuck. I swear to God if you’re not okay I’m going to kick your fucking ass. You don’t get to do this. You don’t. Call me back.”_

 

Once upon a time, Mickey wouldn’t admit to wanting to be with him, and Ian had sex with Kash instead. Once upon a time, Mickey went to juvie because he didn’t want anyone to find out he was gay, and Ian had sex with Lloyd Lishman instead. Once upon a time, Mickey went and got married after Ian begged him not to, and Ian fucked three of the guys at boot camp and blew more guys than he can remember at the clubs instead.

Once upon a time, Mickey threw him out of the house for keeping Mandy’s secret about her baby, and Ian has sex with the old guy named Andrew from the club instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaaah - don't hate me! These boys love each other, but boys are boys, aren't they?


	13. Devils Don't Fly

**Chapter Thirteen: _Devils Don’t Fly_**

Ian’s laying in a pool of his own blood in an alley. His hand lies at odd angles with the rest of his arm because it’s practically severed off, he’s cut so deep. He’s so pale and his lips are blue.

He’s chained to a bed in middle of some grungy ass apartment, his eye swollen and black and he’s got a gag over his mouth so no one can hear him scream.

He’s laid down somewhere, low and alone, and no one knows where he is and he’s going to just waste away there, and it’s Mickey’s fault because he drove him away and Ian isn’t just anybody, he can’t be driven away like that.

Scenario after scenario, each more gruesome and miserable than the last, play through Mickey’s head all morning. He hasn’t slept, and he checks his phone every other minute even though the volume’s turned all the way up and he knows he hasn’t missed a text or phone call yet.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s hungover and sore and he forgot his meds at Mickey’s house, so he doesn’t see much other choice than to go back to Mickey’s in the morning.

His heart hurts, because he spent twenty minutes sitting on that old guy’s front porch that morning, listening to the voicemails Mickey left him and reading the texts from him and Mandy and a couple from Lip, wanting to know why the Milkovichs kept him up half the night asking where he was.

His phone’s nearly dead when he finishes listening to everything, and he puts it back in the pocket of Mickey’s sweatshirt without responding, because he feels sick and he just wants to go home now.

 

* * *

  

Mickey kisses Ian, hard, pressing him against the door. His hands are on Ian’s neck and he’s practically bruising his lips as he crushes them against Ian’s. “You fucking asshole,” he breathes between kisses. He bends his head, planting kisses along Ian’s neck and onto his collarbone.

“Fuck,” Ian breathes, and he sounds surprised as Mickey presses his hips against his.

“Don’t you fucking – ever,” Mickey mutters into his ear.

“I won’t,” Ian breathes, without Mickey having to finish his sentence. Ian’s fingers are locked around Mickey’s belt loops as he presses Mickey painfully close.

As he unzips the sweatshirt covering Ian’s bare chest, he realizes it’s his sweatshirt, and he wants to ask when Ian took it, but Mickey doesn’t see the point in talking at a time like this.

 

* * *

 

 

Ian pushes Mickey, turning him around and pressing him into the back of the couch as he slides Mickey’s pants down. He realizes he hasn’t even stopped to ask if anyone else is home, and so it’s entirely possible they could be walked in on at any moment, but he feels dirty and used up and he just wants to remember what it felt like to appreciate this sort of thing.

Mickey pulls a cushion off the couch and bites it as the pressure increases. Ian watches him with pain in his heart, because he could have lost this and maybe he still will and why the fuck can’t his life just be good for once?

 

* * *

 

 

“I fucked somebody from the club last night.”

Mickey’s ears are ringing, and he isn’t sure if it’s a sentence Ian just spoke or a bullet. He turns, his fingers still on the button of his jeans he just got done doing back up. “Excuse me?”

Ian is sitting on the couch, his arms wrapped around his stomach, and it’s now that Mickey notices the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hands are shaking. He used last night. “It…it’s nothing, I just wanted you to know. He used protection, just…”

“What the fuck are you saying to me right now?”

Ian looks up at him, his hair dirty and laying limply in his eyes. “What?”

“Why the fuck would you go and do that for?” He sounds more confused than pissed off, and he wishes he could remember how he was supposed to be talking right now. But this…this feels different, and it unnerves Mickey.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? I’m tired and I just thought you should know.”

He’s standing up and he’s about to go into the bedroom and surely he’s fucking kidding. “Don’t you act like I’m some little bitch just because I might have something to say about this, Ian.”

He turns, looking back at Mickey with a challenge in his eyes. “You want to be pissed about the Mandy thing, fine, but you don’t have to make this something it isn’t.”

Mickey feels like he’s been punched. “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Fine. Goodnight.”

He watches Ian sleep, sprawled out on the bed with his stupid mouth hanging open. He’s probably drooling on the pillow, which pisses Mickey off because he just changed that pillowcase.

But really, it pisses Mickey off because Ian fucked somebody else. He sits in the corner, flicking his lighter on and off and waving his hand over the flame, wishing he could melt the words from his brain.

But even more than that, it pisses him off that it pisses him off that Ian fucked somebody else. He thinks of his relationship with Ian in stages – chunks of time they’ve spent together before something drove them apart. And he can’t think of a single chunk that didn’t have Ian in it having sex with someone else. So he isn’t totally sure why it bothers him now. After all, right there on the nightstand next to Ian’s hand is that little piece of gold that says he’s married to someone else, and that was the pillow Svetlana slept on until the night he brought Ian back.

He doesn’t really have any business being mad about this – and he has even less of a desire to be mad about it – but every time he tries to make himself stand up and just move on, he feels a weight on his chest and realizes he’s unable to move.

 

* * *

 

 

“Take your pants off.”

Ian’s only just opened his eyes, and he hadn’t even realized Mickey was in the room yet, but he looks over to see Mickey hunched on in a chair in the corner, staring at him. “Round two already?” Ian asks with a smile, though he doesn’t really feel up to it. He’s sore and he’s still so tired. He just wants Mickey to come lay down with him.

“Just stand up and take ‘em off.”

“’M tired, Mick, just come to bed.” Ian rolls over, his back to Mickey, and pulls the pillow closer to him.

“You let him see your fucking legs, or did you make him turn around first too?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, the weight of Mickey’s words settling on his shoulders. “What are you talking about?” He’s sitting up now, staring at Mickey, who’s playing with his stupid lighter and looking at him different.

“Did you make him turn around before you took your pants off, or did he get to see your fucking handiwork?”

 

* * *

 

 

Ian’s eyes are as wide as saucers, and he just stares at Mickey. “He saw.” The words come out so quietly Mickey has to strain to hear them. “How did you…how do you know?”

Mickey’s jaw is clenched, and he shakes his head. “The hospital, when they brought you in. They cut up your clothes, remember? Saw it through the door.”

Ian looks down, his fingers twisting in the loose thread on the blanket. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Tell me why you did it, then.” Mickey has no interest in coddling Ian today.

“I just said, I don’t want – “

“So fucking don’t. Not asking about that. Tell me why you fucked him.”

The look Ian shoots him hurts, because it’s the kind of look Ian gives him when he thinks he’s being stupid. “I don’t know. Didn’t see why not, I guess?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Ian shrugs. “Why’s it matter all of a sudden?”

_It fucking matters because you are supposed to be with me_ , Mickey thinks but doesn’t say. “What made you think it _didn’t_ fucking matter?”

They stare at each other for a long time, before Ian finally answers. “I didn’t really think you were going to want to hang out anymore anyway.”

Mickey laughs, because it fucking hurts him to hear Ian say that. He hangs his head and he keeps laughing because if he doesn’t he’ll probably cry. And fuck if he’s doing that because Ian’s being a little bitch. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ian, what the fuck is your problem?” He looks up again, flicking the lighter on again. “Because I was mad at you, you just decided that’s it? We’re not hanging out anymore?”

“You fucking punched me, Mick. You pointed a gun at me. What the hell else was I supposed to think?”

“That I was pissed off, for one,” Mickey counters. “That you fucking lied to me, _again_ , and maybe it made me mad. Shit, Ian, can you not even realize that maybe I’m allowed to be mad at you and just fucking deal with it for once?”

“Being mad doesn’t get you the right to act like a prick.”

“Being a liar doesn’t give _you_ the right to be one either, but look where we are.” He stands up now, sliding his lighter into his pocket. “I mean, fuck, Ian, have you ever looked at all the shit you give me? And how many nasty old man balls have been smacking against my ass over it?”

Ian gets off the bed now, standing over Mickey. “Don’t,” he says firmly. “Don’t act like it’s the same thing.”

“Why, because you can blame your shit on chemical fucking imbalance?” Mickey laughs. “What about a life fucking imbalance? Look around, Ian, and maybe just try to imagine why I might have been a little pissed off.”

“You told me to leave –“

“Yeah, and you fucking did.” Mickey doesn’t stop to consider what his words even mean. They sound pitiful and pathetic, so Mickey does what Mickey does when he feels weak – he lashes out. “Fucking hell, Ian, you don’t have a damn idea in your head how to really do this shit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This!” Mickey shouts, gesturing between them. “You. Me. You don’t have a fucking clue. All you know how to do is be the dirty little secret. I mean, what the fuck?” He runs his hands through his hair, gripping at the ends. “After fucking everything…you still don’t have a fucking clue.”

Ian looks hurt, and he talks softly, not looking Mickey in the eye. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you fucking don’t. I put everything on the line for you. Jesus, I fucking came out to my whole goddamn family, just to make you fucking happy. I took care of you and…for _this_?” He gestures at Ian, a cruel smile on his lips. “I mean, is that why? Is that why you can’t ever be a real fucking guy to anybody, just their secret? Because the truth is you’re really just that shitty of a person? So you’ve got to be the secret, so even when you fuck up, you’re not the shittiest one in the room, because the guy won’t stand up for you?” Mickey steps closer, only inches away from Ian, and even now, he wants to put his lips against his and just stop talking. He wants this to be over, because hurting and being angry doesn’t compare to the nights they spend together, and he wishes he could choose those instead. “Well, I fucking did, and guess what? Now you’re the only shitty one.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey turns his back to Ian then, and Ian covers his face, because he’s crying now and he doesn’t really want to give Mickey the satisfaction. He tries to slam the door behind him, but he pulls it too hard so it just smacks against the doorframe and flings back open. Ian peeks over his hands, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he walks to the doorway to watch Mickey.

“Rise and shine, lesbian whores!” Mickey shouts, and his fists are pounding on Terry’s door. Ian opens his mouth to tell Mickey to stop, because he’ll wake the baby, but Yev starts screaming before he can. “Rise and fucking shine!”

“Mickey, what the fuck?” Mandy throws her bedroom door open, looking harassed. She does a double take when she notices Ian. “Oh, so you’re still alive then?”

Mickey’s still beating on the door with the palms of his hands, so Ian just shrugs and looks away. “Yo, Scissor Sisters, let’s go!”

“What is your problem?” Mandy asks, and it’s only then that Mickey decides to act like he notices her at all.

“This isn’t some fucking halfway house,” Mickey says, and then turns his head and yells through the door. “Everybody named Gallagher’s got a one way ticket to anywhere but fucking here, so let’s go, bitch!” He bangs hard on the door, again.

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey sits in the living room while Ian and Monica gather their stuff. He gets up once, to toss Ian’s meds onto the bed without looking at Ian, because he’s not going to let him forget those. Ian tries to talk to him, but he walks away. He’s done feeling things about this, he decides, as he drops back onto the couch and tries to find the remote, because there’s a damn Van Damme movie on, and there’s no fucking _way_ he’s watching that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't feel like I say it enough, but to each and every one of you who read this - I thank you so much. You all have been so encouraging, and it means more than I can say that you stick with these boys through all this. I really do just love all of you!


	14. So Far Away

**Chapter Fourteen: _So Far Away_**

“What the _fuck_ did you do?”

“Good fucking morning to you too,” Mickey replies around the unlit cigarette between his lips. He walks away from the door then, leaving it open, because he knows Fiona and Lip are just going barge their way in anyway.

“You think this is some kind of a joke?” Fiona’s practically vibrating with anger, following behind him, Lip on her heels.

Mickey plucks his lighter off the coffee table and turns, shrugging. “Considering I have no fucking clue what the hell ‘this’ even is,” he says, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and gesturing between himself and the Gallaghers with it, “I don’t really fucking care if it’s a joke or not.”

Fiona folds her arms over her chest, her eyes going wide like she can’t believe his nerve. “What the hell did you do to my brother?”

Mickey shrugs again. “Look, whatever the fuck appendage Carl blew off, he didn’t get that shit from me to do it. Not this time, anyway.”

Lip takes a step forward, but Fiona’s arm flies out and catches him across the chest, holding him back. “Don’t play stupid, Mickey,” she says, keeping her eyes on him.

Mickey puts the cigarette back in his mouth while she’s talking, but he doesn’t light it. He looks down, wishing he would have just kicked them out already. This isn’t something he’s looking to discuss with _anyone_ , but when it comes to these two, he’d rather cut his nuts off then try to discuss this with them. “I didn’t do anything,” he says simply. “I haven’t even seen Ian in like a week or some shit.”

It would actually be nine days exactly that night, but who was counting?

Fiona shook her head. “And you didn’t think that was a little weird? You didn’t even talk to him?”

Mickey takes the cigarette out of his mouth again. “I’m not his fucking keeper.”

“Excuse us then, for thinking you gave a shit anyway,” Lip snaps back, his voice loud.

Mickey flicks the lighter on, but doesn’t bring it to the cigarette. “Christ,” he mutters, and drops the cigarette on the table. “I’ll text him later or something, tell him to stop whatever it is you all have a fucking problem with today. Happy?” He has no intention of texting Ian, but he would rather tell them what they want to hear and send them on their way than argue about him all day.

Fiona reaches in her pocket and steps forward, dropping something on the table. “Don’t think texting him would do much good.”

Mickey stares at Ian’s phone on the table, and when he swallows before he speaks, his throat feels tight. “What the fuck are you trying to say?”

“He’s disappeared,” Lip says back, as Fiona stares at Mickey.

“Best we can figure, he’s with Monica.”

Mickey watches them for a long moment. Surely they’re joking. Surely this is just some pathetic game Ian’s trying, so that Mickey will come play his little fucking hero and they’ll fall back into how they used to be. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad…maybe it’d be easier than this. “I don’t know what the fuck that’s got to do with me.”

He can see from the way the muscles in Fiona’s jaw twitch that he’s confirmed something for her with his words, and it pisses him off, because he’s not interested in sharing with the fucking Gallaghers.

“What, like that fucking bruise he had on his ribs had nothing to do with you, either?” Lip moves around Fiona, and this time she doesn’t stop him.

When Mickey doesn’t respond, Fiona glares. “You fucking _hit_ him? Are you kidding?”

“Not exactly your fucking business,” Mickey responds, picking up his cigarette. “And if you’re so fucking worried, why come to me?”

Lip opens his mouth to speak, but Fiona cuts him off, closing the space between them. “Look, I get that I’m just the sister, okay? And Ian’s basically grown now, so yeah, he keeps a lot of shit from me. But I do know he was _fine_ – and then one day he comes in and he hardly speaks to anyone or eats and he won’t even tell Lip what happened. But he’s got bruises and he looks more unhappy than I’ve _ever_ seen him. And then he’s just _gone_. He leaves his phone and half his shit and he just disappears. And this…this is the kind of shit Monica does, Mickey. It’s the shit she does and it never ends well for anybody and I’ll be damned if I let this happened to Ian too.”

Mickey straightens his back and stares back at Fiona, meeting the challenge in her eyes. “Why’s it _my_ fucking problem?”

“Because, you asshole, I know it’s your fault. He was _fine_ , and _you_ broke him, so you’re gonna find him, and you’re going to fucking fix it.”

“Fine, huh?” Mickey lights the cigarette this time, and it’s only as he’s blowing the smoke out from between his lips that Fiona backs up again. “’Cause all those meds, the therapy, that’s what ‘fine’ is?”

“You know what she means,” Lip snaps. “He was _here_ , at least, and that’s a lot more fine than running around with fucking Monica.”

“Go find him, then.”

“Are you really not getting this?” Fiona demands. “He didn’t leave because of us, so he sure as hell won’t come back for us. I mean, Jesus, Mickey, do you seriously not give a shit what happens to him?”

He only looks at Fiona for a moment before he turns away, because he knows that she’s going to see the answer even if he tries to hide it. He stands away from them, his back to them, trying to figure out what he’s going to say. _Fucking Firecrotch, I am going to kill you._ “I’ll fucking find him,” he finally says. “But if he doesn’t want to come back, I’m not dragging his ass back here like last time.”

Mickey knows now, he should have left Ian where he was on that pavement that night he passed out. What was he thinking, dragging him back into a life he never wanted a part of anyway? All he’d done was fuck his own life that way…but not again.

“Whatever, then,” Fiona says from behind him, sounding resigned. “Could you at least have him call, then, if you’re just gonna leave him there?”

He nods without turning around, trying to make it clear that he’s done with the conversation. He hears them talking to each other, and Lip asks Fiona to give him a minute, and it’s not until the door opens and closes that Lip speaks again. “Could you give him these when you see him? Fiona doesn’t know he doesn’t have them.”

Mickey turns then, but he stops short as he recognizes the orange bottle in Lip’s hand.

“That prick,” Mickey says in spite of himself, as he takes the bottle from Lip’s hand, who shrugs in response. Because really, even Ian’s great defender of a brother can’t make excuses for him now. Ian’s run, with Monica Fucking Gallagher of all people, and he didn’t even bother to take his meds with him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oww, _fuck_.” Ian’s hand grabs for the spot on his forehead that connected with the doorframe. Monica’s weight shifts against him as her hand stumbles along the side of his face, trying to meet his at the collision point.

“Oh shit, baby, you okay?” Monica starts out sounding concerned, but she’s laughing before she can even finish the sentence. Ian’s laughing too, but the collision brought him to the floor, apparently, because he realizes he’s not walking anymore.

She’s leaning on him, and he’s pretty sure she’s still mostly standing up, but the whole room is sideways so maybe she’s laying down now. The front door slams, and Monica covers her mouth to stifle her laughter, which seems to have only gotten worse.

“And what’d you two fucking take this time?” He’s mad, Ian can tell without even looking at him. Ian tries to stand, but he’s dizzy, so he settles for propping himself up against the wall. He realizes he hasn’t answered the question, but the truth is he doesn’t remember all the party favors they’ve found around the house today.

“Jesus, Curtis, this place is a fucking mess! You said you were going to clean your shit up today!” Monica starts laughing again, the way she does every time he calls Ian ‘Curtis’, because she seems to find it so funny that he has no idea what Ian’s real name is.

“Sorry, I…what got into you?” He’s hardly the kindest guy Ian’s ever met, never really has been, but something about the way he kicks Ian’s shoes across the room seems a little pissy even for him.

He stops kicking shit around and stares at Ian, which is nice because by not moving, Ian can almost get him in focus. “That fucking cop, _again_ , looking for your ass. I thought you told me no one was going to do that this time.”

Ian feels dizzy, and he shakes his head, wishing he hadn’t taken quite so much. He was expecting a nice afternoon, maybe even a hummer if he could get Monica to go out on a beer run or something and leave them alone for a little bit. “There must have been a mistake…” he starts, but he gets cut off.

“The mistake was thinking I could let a couple junkies crash here.” It hurts Ian’s feelings, because he’s _not_ a junkie. “Look, I get I said I’d help you out and you’ve been a huge asset to my clubs, but…shit. There’s a guy at the motel by the Swallow who owes me a favor. I can get you guys a couple nights there to figure out where you’re going next.”

“You’re kicking us out?” Monica’s lucid all of a sudden, all the laughter vanished in a flash.

“I have worked too fucking hard for my business to have it shut down for you guys. I’ll help you figure it out, but you can’t stay here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey tosses the police badge at Mandy as he slides into the seat. “Well?” she asks, impatient.

“Says he missed the last four shifts.” He starts the car, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Also offered free VIP room experience if I stopped threatening to shut them down.”

“And you took it?” He glances at Mandy as he turns onto the road just long enough to see her smirk.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, “I actually got your ass a raincheck for it. I know how much you love those little gay boys.”

She doesn’t respond, because their usual bickering seems to have lost its touch during the car ride.

“He was lying, anyway,” Mickey says, and Mandy shifts beside him. “You didn’t notice the fucker basically left faster than we did? He knows where Ian is, and he’s going to warn him.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Ian wakes up, he’s still in the passenger seat, and the buildings are sliding past. He wants to believe he recognizes a few of them, but he’s not quite sure anymore. He casts a bleary eye around the car several times before he realizes Monica isn’t there anymore.

“Where’s my mom?”

“Shit, she’s your _mother_?” Ian doesn’t answer, because he’s shaky and he doesn’t feel right. “She said she didn’t want to go to the motel, and asked if I could drop her off at a party store ‘bout twenty minutes ago.”

“We have to go back for her,” Ian says automatically.

But by the time they get there, Monica’s long gone, and the guy at the counter says he doesn’t remember who she left with or even how long ago.

Ian wants to cry, but instead he gets back in the car and he lets himself be driven to the motel, alone. He should have known this wouldn’t have worked. Monica isn’t a ‘heavy stuff’ mom. She flies at the first sign of trouble, and he can’t really be mad, because she’s never exactly claimed to be anything else. But as the motel manager smiles at him when he’s introduced as the “favor” that his manager’s owed, he wishes he wasn’t alone.

He wishes he had his phone, because the phone on the bedside table next to him costs extra that wasn’t ever a part of the ‘favor’, apparently, and he’d give an awful lot right now to go home. He fishes in his pocket for his wallet, but when he opens it up, the few dollars he had left are gone. He feels panic grab him as he realizes Monica stole the last of his money before she left.

Ian ran because he wanted to be alone. He left so he wouldn’t be attached to anyone, but now the lonliness seems suffocating. His breath comes faster as he grips his hair. He has no plan, nowhere to go…and no one who cares.

He lays down on the bed that smells like moth balls, tears hot in his eyes, and looks out the window with the broken blinds at the light that flickers in the parking lot.

He wonders if this is rock bottom, and prays it is, because he doesn’t think he can get much lower and survive.


	15. I Do (Wanna Love You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...you might notice Latch now has an end chapter number attached. Eep! But don't fret, because there's still a lot of wonderful stuff to come, and I'm already working on ideas for my next Gallavich stuff. Also, I'm thinking of some 'missing moments' for Latch here, because there are actually a couple scenes I started to write or almost wrote that I decided affected the pacing, but they might make great one shots?
> 
> Also, today's chapter title comes from a Hedley song that is so Gallavich-y its unreal.

**Chapter Fifteen: _I Do (Wanna Love You)_**

At first, Mickey pretends he doesn’t hear the baby crying. But hours later, Yev’s still going at it and Svetlana’s cursing has only increased, and it’s not like Mickey had any plans for sleeping anyway, so he leaves his room and opens Terry’s bedroom door without knocking.

“What do you want?” Svetlana asks angrily, settling Yev against her shoulder to burp him. She stares at him with a look of defiance, and it takes his sleep deprived brain longer than it should to notice she’s sitting there without a top on.

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters, training his eyes to the ceiling. “Look, I was just going to say if you needed me to watch him for a while…I’m up or whatever, you can get some fucking sleep.”

“You find your orange boy?”

Mickey looks back at her now, his jaw tense. “Just shut up about him, alright? You want me to watch the kid or don’t you?”

She stands then, and she’s at least wearing underwear, though Mickey thinks they’re just a centimeter away from being considered nothing at all. She hands him the baby, and maybe he’s just startled by the change, but Yev actually quiets down for a moment.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Mickey asks, when he realizes Svetlana hasn’t moved. Her hand is on her hip, and she’s watching him.

“I like you better when orange boy is here. And your face, it no have nasty pubes all over it then,” she says, referring to the beard he hasn’t bothered to shave.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I get you don’t speak English that fucking well, but ‘shut up about him’ means you’re not supposed to fucking talk about him anymore.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, because his arms are going to get fucking tired standing there like that, and Svetlana’s still just staring at him. “Monica tell me Carrot Boy would sing song to baby brother when he cry. She teach me song and she sing it to baby at night. Baby does not like way I sing it.”

“Yeah, sorry I got rid of your girlfriend or whatever.”

“Maybe Carrot Boy can sing song the way Monica did.”

He looks back at Svetlana, who comes to sit beside him on the bed. “Well if you see him, ask him to record it for you then. Since when do you even fucking care? Thought you wanted him gone?”

“You were different when he was here,” she says slowly. “Nicer. Better to baby. Better to me.” Mickey snorts at that one, and she looks frustrated. “Your father did a very bad thing, to you and Carrot Boy, yes?”

Mickey’s on his feet again, Yev still in his arms, but he’s not going to have this conversation, no fucking way. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, trying to act like he doesn’t care, but of course he does. He and Svetlana have managed to make it a very long time, all things considered, without discussing this sort of thing. He never even realized, until just now, that she may not have really known just how shitty what Terry did was.

“You punish me, you punish baby, and when Carrot Boy is here, you don’t punish.”

“Well, hate to break it to you, but you’re just going to have to fucking learn to live with it.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a broken light bulb on the floor, because Ian kicked the lamp off the table that first night, when he had what he can only think to describe as a complete breakdown. He was crying, his chest heaving and his sobs coming out as screams, and he just got so frustrated he flung his legs out, and before he knew it the light was out and pieces of the lamp were scattered all over the floor.

He would have picked them up, but he hasn’t left the bed since then. His arms are buried under the pillow and the blankets pulled up to his chin. He’d like to get up, to find the sharpest piece he can find, and just be done with it all. He’s alone and he’s lost and this is going to be where it ends, he’s just sure of it.

He wants to say goodbye to Mickey, but he won’t see him, and even if he did, he doesn’t have the words to say this time. There’s no way to make this better.

 

* * *

 

 

“You lie, before.”

Mickey is propped against the pillows, his knees bent and Yev positioned in his lap, mostly asleep. Svetlana’s next to him, and Mickey thinks this is what his life would have looked like if he could have forgotten Ian when he went away.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He rolls his eyes, because he’s sick of her talking and having to answer.

“I ask if you love him, you say maybe. That is not the truth.”

Mickey shifts uncomfortably, and wants to tell her to shut the fuck up, but being that she hasn’t exactly taken his last fifteen requests for the same seriously, he doubts this one will suddenly mean something to her. “I don’t,” he says instead, and he’s not sure if he’s trying say he doesn’t know if he loves Ian, or if he just simply doesn’t love him.

“You leave all day, you spend whole day in car because you look for him. Cannot be comfortable.” Mickey wasn’t aware Svetlana knew how he spent his days, but apparently sucking dick and watching babies wasn’t keeping her busy enough these days.

“What’s your point?”

“I know I did not love Monica,” Svetlana says. “She was pretty, nice, and I like her here, but I do not love her. And so I do not look for her. She leave, and I let her go. I do not follow.”

“It’s also my fucking house, and she’s not fucking welcome here anyway.”

Svetlana takes the baby from him then, cooing at him and settling him against her. She looks up at Mickey, and Mickey swallows hard, uncomfortable with being stared at and having this conversation. “It is good you love him,” Svetlana says, and Mickey cringes at the word, not taking his eyes off Yev.

 

* * *

 

 

Usually, when the knock sounds at the door, Ian just tells them to go away.

But today, his mouth is dry and his head feels so heavy that the idea of opening his mouth seems impossible. So housekeeping comes in, and instead of telling them not to disturb, he curls up tighter underneath the blanket.

He knows she sees him, and it takes her a good long while to close the door behind her, as if she’s debating turning around and leaving. He wishes she would. It’s hard to waste away and disappear if people watch you do it.

And then there’s a hand on the blanket, and it’s pulling it back, and she’s opened the blinds and the sun is too bright and he hates it.

“Is there somebody I can call for you, you poor dear?”

 

* * *

 

 

About the only thing less comfortable than falling asleep in jeans is falling asleep in jeans while half sitting up next to your nearly naked wife, Mickey discovers as he opens his eyes that morning. He looks over and sees Svetlana’s still asleep, one arm over Yev, who she’s created a little bed for out of pillows between them.

It takes him a long second to realize he’s waking up because there’s knocking at the door, and he’s still rubbing his eyes when Mandy gives up on knocking and just throws the door open.

“What the _fuck_ happened here?” Whatever was so important for her to say, it clearly doesn’t trump the spectacle of what lays before her.

“None of your fucking business. What do you want?”

She stares at him for a moment, then glances at Svetlana, who’s still asleep. “I was looking for you.”

“Yeah, and you fucking found me, so what do you want?”

“Ian called me. I know where he is.”

 

* * *

 

 

The light on the lock turns green as Mandy pulls the key back out, and her hand is on the knob and pushing the door open before Mickey can tell her not to. He takes an instinctive step back, because he’s suddenly wishing he had just stayed home. He wishes he hadn’t punched the front desk guy and stolen the key from behind the desk, and he wishes he didn’t even know who Ian Gallagher was. Because now he’s right here, behind this door, and Mickey can’t tell if he’s happy to know this or pissed off or just afraid.

Mandy pushes the door open, and Ian’s back is to them, but it’s him alright. He’s just laying there, under the blankets, his little shock of red hair bright against the pillow. The room’s dark even though it’s morning, and there’s a lamp laying broken on the floor.

“Yo, douchebag, we’re here,” Mandy says, trying to sound normal, but she glances over at Mickey and he sees she’s afraid.

Ian doesn’t move, and Mickey wants to think that maybe he’s just asleep, but he knows better. “Get up,” he says, loud enough so his voice will carry across the room.

But Ian doesn’t move, and all at once the weight of all of this comes crashing down at Mickey. Ian’s supposed to be an asshole. He’s supposed to be coked off his ass and having some grand old time without Mickey, and Mickey’s supposed to come crashing in and ruin his irresponsible little party. It’s supposed to make Mickey feel better to hurt him a little, and then maybe if Mickey wants to, he can forgive Ian.

But it’s not supposed to be like this. He can’t just lay there like this, and ask Mickey to give in again. Because that’s what he’s doing – he’s asking Mickey to give in, to take care of him just the way he promised, and Mickey doesn’t want to.

“Get the _fuck UP_ ,” Mickey snaps, louder.

“Mickey!” Mandy’s mad now, her tone a warning for him to cool it.

“ _Get up!_ ” His voice is deep, and he’s practically screaming at Ian, but Ian might as well not even be there, for all the difference it makes to him. There’s still his back, facing toward them, not a single muscle moving. Mickey slams the palms of his hands against the doorframe.

Mandy touches his arm, and he jerks away as if she’s burned him. Mickey’s feet carry him backward now, and his vision blurs. He’s backing away from the door and he’s moving away from Ian and maybe he’ll just keep going, he’ll just leave and he won’t come back and he’ll be the guy who used to be, because surely that’s easier than doing this again.

“ _Mick!_ ” Mandy’s frustrated and impatient, and there’s footsteps, and Mickey’s sitting on the ground now, the wind cutting through his jacket. “Mickey.” Her voice is softer now, and he wants to tell her to knock it off with that pity fucking tone she has in her voice. He looks up at her as she crouches in front of him.

Maybe if they were other people, he’d say something to her. He’d tell her he’s terrified and he isn’t even sure anymore who he’s more afraid for, himself or Ian. And that what he wants to do right now is run away and stop trying to make Ian better, because there isn’t better. There’s just “okay for now”, and maybe Mickey didn’t sign up for that.

But she’s Mandy and he’s Mickey, and they’re Milkoviches and heartfelt shit isn’t their specialty, so instead he just glares at her through his wet eyes and she understands anyway. “We can’t just leave him here,” she says.

Mickey looks down then, biting his lip. “Of course we fucking can’t. Let’s go get his ass in the truck.”

He looks pathetic, laying there in that bed like that. Mickey wishes he looked small, helpless, anything that let him feel for him, something other than just pity. His eyes are wide open and the way his eyes water makes Mickey think he hasn’t closed them in days.

Mickey kneels in front of his face, his boots crunching in broken glass. “You still alive in there?”

Ian’s eyes lock onto his, and if he recognizes him, he doesn’t show it.

Mickey sighs, and before he can stop himself, his hand slides through Ian’s dirty hair. “It’s time to go home, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must say, I kinda love Svetlana's character a little bit (particularly the Svetlana we saw in 4x12). I truly believe she does not really understand the ramifications of what Terry asked her to do. I could go on about Svetlana for awhile, but I feel like she's so subtly complex and I love it. I was trying to make their conversation here reminiscent of the place they're in at the end of season 4. 
> 
> As always, thank you all for your kind words!


	16. The Mess I Made

**Chapter Sixteen: _The Mess I Made_**

The shower Ian takes two days later at the Milkovich’s house is probably the best one he’s ever had. Sure, the water only stays warm for the first couple minutes, because it’s the middle of the day and everyone else has already showered, but even icy cold water feels like heaven compared to the way he’s been feeling.

He lets the water run down his face and he shoulders, and he tries to find the words he’ll tell Mickey when he sees him later. He hasn’t seen much of him since they got back. The first night, Mickey slept on the floor, just beside the bed, and Ian thought about reaching for him, but he didn’t think he could really move that much. And the next day, Mickey stayed away. He heard him sometimes, with the baby, but it was Mandy who visited him and brought him food and tried to make him take the meds he pretended he didn’t even see.

And then that morning, it was Svetlana who brought him breakfast, and she stood over him with the tray, but he wouldn’t look up at her.

“You make whole house stink,” she said, and then she dumped the tray on him, orange juice and oatmeal and all. He jumped, then, because it was cold and hot and unexpected, and then she walked out without a word. So of course he’d had to take a shower, which had evidently been her plan the whole time.

 

* * *

  

“Oh, sorry.”

Mickey was still putting his arm through his shirt when he heard Ian behind him. He turned, pulling the hem of the shirt down over his jeans, and found Ian standing in the doorway, shirtless and clean and upright, and it was a sight Mickey had started to think he wouldn’t be seeing again.

“Whatever,” Mickey says with a shrug, as Ian roots around for his own shirt to wear. But of course, all of his stuff is gone and Mickey searched that whole motel, but his belongings weren’t there either, so he didn’t have anything but the dirty clothes he was wearing when they found him. Sighing, Mickey reaches into his drawer and pulls out a shirt, tossing it at Ian.

“Thanks,” Ian says quietly, putting it on and refusing to make eye contact.

It pisses Mickey off, these couple words that pass for conversation between them now. He was never one for talking, sure, but Ian was, and now he acts like he’s not even supposed to be there.

Mickey is going to leave, but he doesn’t move, and he finds himself watching Ian as he sits down on the bed, his fingers combing through his wet hair. “You eat yet?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Uhh…not exactly,” Ian says, and he reaches over and pulls a piece of toast out from under the covers, looking up at Mickey with something that’s almost a smile on his face.

“The fuck is that?”

“Svetlana, she…guess you could call it a wake up call.”

Mickey snorts, because of course it would be Svetlana who would get Ian out of bed. Of course, after everything everyone else tried.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m sorry I left.” Ian’s got Mickey’s attention again, with this one small sentence. His eyes meet Ian’s, and Ian wants to look away, because he doesn’t feel ready. But it isn’t about being ready anymore, so he forces himself to keep looking back at Mickey. “I appreciate you coming, but I’m sorry you had to.”

Mickey’s pawing at the floor with his foot, and Ian knows he’s uncomfortable and reaching for some way to escape. “What else is new?” Mickey says with a shrug, and Ian remembers why he appreciates Mickey. Because even now, even after everything, he’s willing to pretend like this isn’t a big deal, like it doesn’t matter. Like Ian’s not some mess tearing through the world.

But Ian’s feeling better today – not quite manic, but not really depressed – he’s just low enough to be bitter and self-loathing, yet high enough to deal with it. “It shouldn’t be like this, though. I…I don’t want to be Monica, okay? I don’t want to just run every time I get crazy.”

Mickey’s watching him, his lips parted. “You’ll never be Monica, Ian.” His voice is softer than Ian’s used to, more sincere.

“Sure feels like it,” Ian mutters, not wanting to argue the point but seeming unable to stop himself. “I spent my whole life hating being a prisoner of her mood swings, and I’m not doing anyone any better.”

“Then do better,” Mickey says, more aggressively, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Shit, Ian, take your meds, go to therapy. Do the shit Monica won’t, and then maybe you won’t do all the shit she does you don’t want to have any part of.”

Ian looks away, because he doesn’t like discussing his meds. It doesn’t feel like it’s anyone else’s business, and it feels so private to him. “I was taking my meds when you kicked me out, so doesn’t seem like that’s exactly enough to keep from fucking everything up.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey shifts, because this time he really is going to leave, because he’s not interested in talking about this. But Ian’s looking at him like he’s going to drown just sitting there, so Mickey stays where he is. “Yeah, well fucking old assholes seems more like second nature to you then a condition of being unmedicated.”

Ian has that stupid expression on his face like he’s a wounded little dog. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know it mattered.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, feeling his temper flare. “Yes you fucking did. You not the same guy who nursed his wounds with some wrinkly dick because I fucked Angie?”

“That’s different.”

“How?” Mickey moves a little closer, his voice challenging.

“Because…well…fuck, Mickey. Because I give a shit about that kind of thing and you never did.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ian is sure Mickey’s going to hit him again. He bites his lip and he moves closer, and Ian finds himself scooting backward on the bed. But Mickey doesn’t touch him, just glares down at him. “That’s what you fucking think?” Ian doesn’t answer, so Mickey moves closer. “You fucking think I don’t care?”

Ian’s philosophy on love was so simple when he was little – if they stayed, they cared, and if they left or fucked off on your problems to deal with their own, they didn’t. It was why he knew Fiona was a better parent to him then Monica or Frank could ever hope to be – because when he needed someone to stand for him, she did. But then there was Mickey. Mickey, who stayed and fought and ran and came back and hid from himself while giving Ian the best of him, and didn’t really ask for Ian to ever return the favor. He protected Ian and he ran from Ian and he cared about Ian but he married some other girl anyway and then he came to get Ian so many times and Ian knew, he _knew_ Mickey cared about him. But he cared in ways he would never even admit to himself, so Ian didn’t know the rules of this kind of affection. It wasn’t the sort of love he dreamed about, where they would share it with the world. It was private and messy and how the hell was he supposed to know what Mickey was going to care an about, when he spent so much of his time pretending he didn’t care about anything at all?

“Considering you’re not one for blurting out how you fucking feel all the time,” Ian says, and he sounds angry when he’s really just hurt and lonely, “I don’t actually know what I think when it comes to you.”

Mickey licks his lips, shaking his head. “You are really some kind of special sort of dumbass, you know that?”

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey feels a rage in his heart and wet fire in his eyes and he’s just so mad, because how can he have done everything he has and Ian not get it?

“You made this different,” he says, his voice shaking. “You fucking…shit, Ian. You made me tell everyone about us and I did it and I changed and you don’t get to act like I didn’t. Like this is the same little shit we played at before in the cooler and all this other shit.”

Ian’s looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together, like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t just keep pretending you don’t know it’s different now!” Mickey turns around, feeling frustrated, but it’s just a second later, and he’s rounding on Ian again. “Fucking hell, Ian. I tell you we’re together, I tell my dad we’re together, I take care of you and I keep you here when everyone wants you to get sent the fuck away, and you still treat this like it’s kid shit. It’s not. What you and I have…it’s bigger than that. You don’t get to act like it doesn’t matter if you fuck up.”

“Mickey –“ Ian is about to stand up, but Mickey keeps talking and Ian freezes.

“No. You think it doesn’t matter to me? You fucking think it doesn’t matter? Because I didn’t spend night after night making sure exactly what happened didn’t happen, following your stupid ass to the club every night. Shit, Ian, I know you’re not this fucking stupid. _You’re_ the one who doesn’t want it to matter, and I don’t fucking know why, but you don’t get to make it my fault.”

And he walks out of the room, even though he hears Ian call for him, and ask him not to go. Because once, he wanted Ian to do that for him, and he didn’t. And maybe he deserves to know how it feels.

 

* * *

 

 

Ian spends about four minutes wallowing in his own self-pity before he follows Mickey, who’s slamming stuff around in the kitchen. Ian leans against the wall, his arms folded, and watches Mickey. “Can I say something now?” he asks, quietly.

“Fuck off is what you can say,” Mickey grumbles, tossing a glass into the sink and turning on the water. “Just forget I fucking said anything, okay?”

Ian’s shoulders drop, and he wants to leave, but that’s the problem with the whole thing in the first place, so he’s going to stay and he’s going to talk. “I don’t want it to matter to you what I do because it’s an awful lot easier to be the one who gets hurt because they care, then to be the one who does the hurting because they’re too fucked up to do it right when it matters.”

Mickey pauses, a plate in his hand over the sink, and looks back at him. “That’s what you fucking think?”

It occurs to Ian, then, that somewhere along the way they’ve apparently changed roles. Mickey spent so long being the one who hurt Ian, because Ian cared too much and Mickey just didn’t. And now Ian’s doing the hurting, and he tries to tell himself it’s different, but it isn’t.

“That’s not the point, Mick. It – you think all that time I spent begging you not to hide anymore, you think this is the life I thought we’d get after? That you’d have to deal with this?” He gestures at himself. “Least if you still didn’t give a shit, you’d be better off.”

“Oh, fuck that,” Mickey says, getting louder. “Don’t act like you get to make that fucking decision. Don’t sit there and act like living a lie or you being gone is supposed to be fucking better than dealing with your stupid shit. I’d choose your bullshit a million times over, so don’t you fucking tell me it’d be better if I didn’t.”

Ian lets out a breath. He wishes he could hold Mickey in that moment, the look of rage he has in his eyes for the sweetest reason Ian can think of. He’s got this tapestry in his mind of Mickey Milkovich, sewn of each small sentence, each little kindness he’s shown him, and he knows it’s moments like this that make him lucky to be the one who gets to see Mickey as he really is.

“No. That isn’t a decision you should have to make.”

“But I made it, so how about you shut the fuck up?”

Ian closes his eyes, and he smiles, even though he can see when he opens his eyes that it pisses Mickey off. “I didn’t mean…I meant that I don’t want you to have to choose to deal with shit. I’ve been being an asshole and you’ve been great about it, but I want it to stop, okay?”

Mickey stares at him. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Ian steps closer, and Mickey doesn’t move away. “I mean I want to try harder. I want to take my meds and I want to go to therapy and I want to figure out how to be a regular fucking person. I get I’m shit at it, but I want to work harder and do it right. I just…I don’t think I can do it by myself.” Ian’s tried so hard not to admit any of this, not to himself but especially not to anyone else either. He’s wanted to believe he was doing right, and the world was just out to get him. But the truth is he hasn’t wanted to be better bad enough, and the thought of losing Mickey because of it burns him up inside.

Mickey closes the distance between them, and his fingers guide Ian’s chin upward, so he isn’t looking at the floor anymore but right into Mickey’s eyes. “Bitch, if you think I’m making you do a second of this by yourself, you’re even fucking dumber than you look.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you all, but I sure am glad to have our boys back on the same page! Just one chapter left...ahhhh I am going to miss this story so much!


	17. Lego House

**Chapter Seventeen: _Lego House_**

It’s the hard truth about mental illness that Mickey learns: wanting to be get better isn’t the same as getting better. He wanted nothing more, for himself, for Ian, then for it to just be better now. That their good intentions could be the right medication to balance his redhead back out and put them back where they were supposed to be. But it didn’t work that way.

Some days it’s a struggle to get Ian to take his meds. He avoids it, or starts talking about something else each time Mickey reminds him, telling him he’ll take them “in a minute” for hours. Some days he’s got an attitude worse than Mickey’s ever seen, and they fight, even though they both know it’s pointless. Other days, Ian’s needy, and Mickey can’t leave the house because Ian starts to panic or fall apart and he isn’t going to let that happen to Ian anymore if he can fucking help it.

But those days aren’t every day. And the days in between, Ian is Ian again and Mickey’s still Mickey. They joke around and they fuck and they have time to do their own thing and this is why Mickey risked everything in the Alibi that day. They watch movies and play video games and run scams around the neighborhood and it’s _normal_ – normal for a couple gay guys in the Southside, anyway.

Then there are the long stretches, where things go right. It seems like Ian’s finally on the right medication, and Mickey actually loses count of the number of days they’ve gone without some sort of “episode”. Mickey gets comfortable in these times, almost letting himself believe it’s over. But bipolar disorder, as they come to learn, doesn’t have an ending.

Therapy’s the worst part of the whole thing, because Ian almost never wants to go, and even though Mickey doesn’t really get the point of it himself, he makes Ian go when he can. His mood afterward is always a mystery – some days he’s fine, or chattering on about some “breakthrough” they made and the new emotional clarity he’s reached, while most times he’s sullen or miserable or hides in Mickey’s room all night. Sometimes he’ll let Mickey help, or he’ll just collapse against them once they’re alone, but other times he’s bitter and acts like he blames Mickey for the whole thing.

But Mickey deals with it, because for the most part, Ian’s trying now. He doesn’t tell Mickey that he’s better off without him (except on the really bad days), and he takes a job at the diner with Fiona. It’s not as good of money as the club, but he says it’s only temporary, until he can trust himself again.

It isn’t anything like Mickey would have expected, this thing they have now. But even still, it’s more than he would have ever let himself hope for, back before he let himself hope about any sort of future at all.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s all the talk about the Army at therapy that does it. The therapist says he needs to talk about his time there, because it’ll make identifying the early stages of mania easier for him. And so he tries, but he gets irritated and eventually just tells the therapist that she can rest assured the next time he tries to commander a helicopter, he’ll take it as a sign he’s lost it again.

But it’s on the car ride home that he really thinks about the Army, about what all this has cost him. He had a future, once upon a time, didn’t he? He was going to be an officer in the army and he was going to be a soldier. He’d have a house and a steady income and he’d be able to take care of his family. And he was going to be out in the Army, whether anyone liked it or not, and sometimes he’d even imagine Mickey at the Officer functions, spiking the drinks and scamming the cater waiters, and it made him happy.

And now what did he have? He wasn’t in school, he could never go back to the Army, and he was going to be medicated until the day he died.

“Yo, Miss Frizzle, you hungry?”

Ian looks at Mickey, who’s crawled onto the bed beside him, and shakes his head. Mickey’s brows draw together, and he studies Ian’s face.

“You okay in there?” He asks, his voice thick, as he raps a knuckle gently against Ian’s temple.

Ian nods again, though it’s not the truth. His mouth feels heavy, too heavy to move, or else he’d tell Mickey the truth. He settles of finding his hand underneath the blanket, and trapping it with his. He just wishes it was enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey doesn’t think much of it until he thinks everything of it. Ian had said he was going to take a long shower, try to get out of his funk, and it’d made Mickey smile because it was a good sign, that Ian could tell he was in a bad mood and trying to do something to change it.

It’s twenty minutes before Mickey realizes the water isn’t running.

He barges into the bathroom without knocking, and he startles Ian, who’s sitting on the toilet with his pants up. He jumps when the door opens, and the glass catches Mickey’s eye as it falls to the floor.

“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey demands, shutting the door behind him and dropping to his knees in front of Ian, grabbing up the glass before Ian can touch it. He feels it poke his finger, and he reaches up and drops it in the sink, bringing his finger to his lips to suck on the sore spot.

Ian glares at him, pushing down the sleeve on his arm. “Just forget it, okay?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking high? ‘Forget it’? No fucking way. The fuck did you think you were doing?”

Ian stares at him, angry and defiant. “Taking care of it.”

“Taking care of…” the words suddenly make sense to Mickey, and his hands fly toward Ian, grabbing his shoulders and holding him still. “Don’t you fucking tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me. What the fuck is going on?” Fiona’s words from so long ago, when this all started, are playing in Mickey’s mind, and he doesn’t want her to be right. She can’t be. This is Ian, and Ian can’t just want to leave him, not again.

Ian tries to jerk away, but Mickey holds him still, and he sees angry tears fill Ian’s eyes, but he doesn’t look away. “I have no future now, Mick. This stupid shit ruined everything and I left everything to be somebody and now I won’t be and I just want to fucking die and get it over with!”

“You don’t mean that,” Mickey says, shaking his head as if it will dislodge the words.

“The hell I don’t.”

“You gotta fucking stop that, Ian,” Mickey says, and he grabs Ian’s arm, pushing the sleeve up. There’s a tiny scratch, right there on the small of his wrist, but for the most part he seems to have caught Ian before anything happened. “You…you fucking can’t, okay? You can’t talk like that.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“And what, you think I fucking do?” He presses his lips against Ian’s wrist, wishing he knew how to express how grateful he is that it’s still in one piece. “Jesus Christ, Ian, you can’t do this to me. You’re not going to just fuck off and die and leave me here with that. You’re not.”

Ian doesn’t answer him, but when Mickey pulls him up, he obliges and follows Mickey back to the bedroom. Mickey locks around Ian after he’s settled in bed, and he doesn’t sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

 

Ian finds a wet spot in his hair when he wakes up in the morning, and he rolls over to apologize to Mickey and let him know he’s feeling better now. Mickey’s eyes are bloodshot and he doesn’t really want to talk to Ian, instead just digging his forehead into Ian’s back and saying he’s going to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t like Ian never cuts himself again. But the next time he does it, he comes to Mickey with his arm still bleeding and just starts crying, saying sorry over and over again. And Mickey, scared out of his mind, makes Ian lay down and he just runs his fingers through Ian’s hair until it passes.

And it’s weeks later when he catches Ian again, and he sees he’s missed a few times. And it makes him angry, and after they fight, Ian leaves, but he comes back an hour later and puts his arms around Mickey’s shoulders from behind and says he’ll stop.

He doesn’t, but he tries harder after each time to make it the last time. And maybe that’s all Mickey can expect, even if he asks for more.

 

* * *

  

It feels, most days, like the goodness or badness of their day rests solely on Ian’s shoulders. When his meds are working well, it’s a good day, and when he’s having a bad day, then it’s a terrible day.

It’s a lot of pressure, until Ian starts to realize that sometimes, bad days are Mickey’s fault too.

Sometimes, Mickey has to stay up all night with Yev, and he’s just pissy and brooding all day. Some days, Mickey wakes up to Svetlana or Nikka going off in Russian or Mandy ranting at him about dirty stuff all over the place, and it just sets him on the course to be miserable all day. Then there are the times Mickey seems to forget what it means to be a couple, and he disappears for hours without telling Ian he’s even leaving, and he gets mad at Ian for caring about “relation-shit”, telling him he didn’t want “some little bitch for a boyfriend”.

Between the therapy and the journal he’s supposed to keep and the constant bated breath everyone seems to have when they’re around him, Ian feels like he spends every moment waiting to screw up. But he waits for Mickey to screw up too, and he starts to relax with the notion that screwing up is what he’s _supposed_ to do. Screwing up isn’t just a condition of the mentally unstable, it’s a human condition, and it’s not so bad to feel human again.

Mickey gets better just as much as Ian does. He actually puts his arm around Ian at the Alibi one night, though he shoves him off the stool a minute later when he realizes he’s done it. And sometimes, when he’s really tired from trying to deal with his baby and his bipolar boyfriend and his bitch of a wife, he even asks Ian for help. And when they’re alone, they’re so free in their time together, and Mickey shows his gestures and words that Ian thought he’d have to imagine into their silences and glances his whole life.

But more than anything, Mickey is already more than Ian deserves. Every time he puts up with Ian’s bullshit, even though he gives back more than he gets most of the time. Ian can’t understand how the same guy who dented the toaster because it burned the toast is the same guy with enough patience to put up with him. But he is, and Mandy audibly gags at the kitchen table when Ian gets up, throws the toaster into the trash, and kisses Mickey in front of her and Mickey’s wife and Mickey’s son and Mickey’s wife’s girlfriend. It’s a different kind of happy then he expected, this life they have together, but it’s a good one.

 

* * *

 

 

The therapist encourages Ian to keep up his running, and so when he has non-bad days, he goes for runs early in the morning, just like before. He’s gotten pretty fast, and he tries to add at least half a mile to the run every week. He leaves Mickey sleeping, and nowadays he runs far enough to pick them both up a coffee.

He’s sitting on Mickey’s front steps, tying his shoes, when Mickey comes out the front door. “How the _fuck_ can this possibly be healthy?” Mickey asks around his lit cigarette.

“Don’t think anyone actually thought smoking was healthy in the first place,” Ian replies with a smirk.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, followed by a stream of smoke. “It is way too fucking early for anything good to happen in the world. How can you stand to do this every goddamn morning?”

“It sets the tone for the day,” Ian says, standing up and turning to face Mickey.

“Well, it’s a pretty shitty fucking tone, if you ask me.”

Ian laughs. “I wake you up or something?”

“No, I set an alarm.”

Ian’s eyes narrow. “You set an _alarm_? Your phone have a setting for the asscrack of dawn?”

“Something like that.” Mickey drops his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with the front of his shoe. Ian glances down, and he wonders how long Mickey’s had those sneakers, because he doesn’t recognize them. “So does your run actually consist of, I don’t know, _running_? Or you just stand around thinking you look fucking cute all morning?”

Ian looks back up at Mickey’s face, and shakes his head, smiling. “No fucking way.”

“The fuck are you on about?” Mickey asks, but Ian can tell from the way he straightens his posture that he knows Ian’s figured him out and he’s getting defensive.

“You’re coming with me?”

Mickey glares at him. “Get that fucking smirk off your face, asshole. I’m just sick of drinking cold fucking coffee every morning because your ass can’t get it here fast enough.”

Ian laughs, and he doesn’t stop smirking. “I don’t think you’ll make it all the way to the coffee house on your first run, Mick. We’ll be lucky if your black lungs get you to the corner.”

Mickey steps forward, closing the distance between him and Ian. “Oh, you fucking think so, huh?”

Ian’s still laughing as Mickey takes off down the stairs, and he turns in time to see Mickey running backwards, his middle fingers extended toward Ian. He takes off down the stairs in pursuit, the sun already starting to peek over the houses in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it folks. Latch is officially over. 
> 
> I hope you all liked the ending. The idea of it has been with me since the start. It's been very important to me to try to display Ian's condition realistically, and I kept coming back to this idea that he and Mickey eventually reach a point where life goes on. It goes on with Ian being bipolar, and having bad days and good days, but they eventually start to see the light between them and it is a constant struggle, but it's one they're both willing to struggle with for each other. So I hope that came across. 
> 
> And lastly, the end segment of Mickey and Ian running fluff is my thank you to each and every one of you who suffered through every Gallavich struggle along the way. 
> 
> I cannot thank every single one of you enough for your support. I have struggled with finishing fics before in the past, but in general, this is the fastest I've ever written a fic - due in part to my Gallavich love, but in much greater part to the kindness and feedback I got from all of you. 
> 
> I am already planning out some more Gallavich fic...so until next time, I love you all.


End file.
